


Three Shots of Espresso and a Packet of Lovehearts

by elvntari



Series: SFW Tolkien Discord [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Babysitting, Brotherly Love, Coffe shop AU, Coffee, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Ex-Con Melkor, Forbidden Love, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Modern Era, Postpartum Depression, Russingon, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Utumno, angbang, daemags, frankly ridiculous amounts of drama, sauron and osse are best friends you cant tell me otherwise, there will be more later okay, trans Maglor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-04-07 00:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 23,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14069280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvntari/pseuds/elvntari
Summary: Ex-convict Melkor runs a small coffee shop with the allowance his more successful younger brother pays him in the hope that it will help him to adjust back into society- unfortunately, he only has one regular customer: young civil rights lawyer, Maedhros. Living stuck in a rut, he learns to accept the worst- that is, until Mairon walks into his shop and, by extension, his life.Mairon is still an apprentice jeweller at twenty-six and he wants to go and forge his own path. More specifically, he wants to find the birth parents that abandoned him when he was still an infant and hopefully, in the process, find himself.Maedon Feanorion did not expect to feel indebted to his parents for his existence, and yet it happened anyway. Dragged into family drama against his will, at least their's one bright side: his dashing step-cousin, Fingon Anairion.Maglor only wants to be left in peace to do what he will, and his boring, dead-end job seems like the perfect way to do that, until a competitor shows up and forces him to adapt to a life that is getting rapidly more exciting.





	1. Melkor

**Author's Note:**

> Translation note: Maedon/Maedhon is the Sindarin form of Maitimo. Thanks to Elaran on discord for helping me out with that one! 
> 
> I'm using Sindarin names/common names for characters where I can, which was easy aside from the fact that Maedhros' Sindarin name is made up of his real name + his nickname and he hasn't made that change in this fic, yet.
> 
> Mairon is still Mairon because...well, you'll see ;) 
> 
> For your pleasure: a playlist to accompany the work -> https://open.spotify.com/user/thirstyforlemon/playlist/2zYu0fNKUvv96vOwmZeTvE?si=SMjFo-kQRmK1Nfho1e9J-Q
> 
> Sidenote: I've finally written a coffee shop au! I guess that makes me a proper fic author now?

I don’t think I’m a particularly bad person. I’ve made some mistakes, sure, and I tend to be a bit of a fuck-up, but I _try,_ and that’s what counts- at least, according to Manwë. Of course, it’s easy for him to say that when he’s the one with the perfect life; top grades, good looking, beautiful wife… I could go on, but that would be boring (and I’d just get frustrated). The only thing that you really need to know is that I’m a high school dropout and ex-convict, and he runs the biggest accounting firm in the country, has two beautiful children, owns a giant country mansion and makes six figures- and he isn’t even thirty.

I run something, though: a little coffee shop. Well, I say ‘coffee shop’, but really a better term would be ‘human petrol station’- it isn’t charming, nor does it make a good place to sit down and have a chat with your mates; it’s a shoddy old place on a tiny street corner with barely enough space for an entire serving area, let alone places to sit. It was Manwë who told me I should open it. He said that it would be a great way to reintegrate into society (that and he doesn’t think I’ll be able to get a job anywhere else), so I gave it a deliberately unwelcoming name because I didn’t want to prove his point. ‘Utumno’ isn’t that bad, I suppose, but it doesn’t have the same name as the _actual_ coffee shop down the street: ‘Forest Blend.’ I still think that only some leftover hippie from the seventies would name a coffee shop something like that, and I’m probably right since the owner (I think Yavanna was her name) definitely fits the profile; all flower crowns and floaty dresses.

I don’t fuss with presentation or artistry, either; I give you however much of a pick-me-up you want (barring illegal drugs) in a paper cup with a plastic lid and a warning not to burn your tongue scrawled on the side. People appreciate the no-nonsense, though- at least, that’s what Manwë tells me (or tells himself, I can’t be sure).

There’s one guy in particular who seems to be immune to both heat and any sensation of taste whatsoever- he’s been coming here since I first opened shop. I don’t think there’s been a day where he hasn’t shown up (eight thirty AM on the dot- mad man) to grab a double espresso for the morning and a Red Bull for the afternoon. The first week he came I though he must be taking exams (he looked about the right age), but then he just kept coming. I don’t ask questions- not my fault if he has some kind of caffeine addictions (okay, maybe a little bit my fault), but he’s here again, and the bags under his eyes are much deeper than usual.

“Double- uh, double espresso- fuck, that’s not enough. Can I get pure energy? Is that an option?” He rubs his eyes.

“Not legally,” I raise my eyebrows at him, “you’re basically asking for cocaine, mate.”

“Damn, okay- alright, just- just whatever’s strongest- I don’t care how much it costs, alright?”

I don’t think I’m a bad person, but this kid looks _bad-_ enough so that I wonder if staying in my lane will make me one again. Besides, he’s fairly attractive- neat, auburn hair (except it’s all messed up today), and high cheekbones- proud features. He’s not my type, but if he were a painting, I wouldn’t mind staring at him for hours; there’s something about pretty people that makes you want to help them.  

“Are you okay?”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me that- what does it look like, pal?” He laughs a little. His voice is hoarse, like he’s been yelling a lot, “sorry, just really fucking stressed.”

I suppose it’s something to do with a case. I don’t know him well, but I gathered a fair amount of information from brief exchanges and eavesdropping on conversations between him and the only brother of his also crazy enough to come here; he’s the eldest son of a large family, insisted on putting himself through law school since he knew he had a way with words- fancied himself as a modern-day Cicero. At least, at first, he did. “You want to tell me why?” I decide I have nothing to lose except a customer (and then all I’d be doing is proving my annoying baby brother wrong, so that’d really be a victory), “you know, it’s not safe to consume addictive substances when you’re down.”

“Shut up,” he laughs, but he’s considering it- I can almost _see_ him wondering if sharing his troubles with a familiar stranger is such a bad idea, “my uh- my family is a bit of a mess right now and they want me to help out because I’m the law kid.”

“Divorce?”

“Oh, God, no- not my parents, at least. Some fuss with my dad’s step-brother- my- what is it? Step-uncle? Is that a thing?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“My grandfather wants to officially adopt him for legal reasons, but my dad…doesn’t want that- and you know the deal with people disagreeing on things. Family mess, yeah…family mess.”

“Who are you helping? Whose side are you on?”

“Look, that’s the thing; I’m supposed to be neutral- I’m supposed to be a mediator. I told them that’s not my job, but they wouldn’t listen- ‘all law is the same, right?’ That kind of thing,” he drums his fingers against the counter-top. He’s jittery- almost bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes darting around the room, unable to fixate on one place for long.

“I’m going to be honest and say you really don’t look like you need anything right now.”

“You’re probably right, but I’ll pay you double if you serve me anyway.”

I consider it for a second but decide that my conscience won’t be able to handle it if I do, “just take an energy bar instead, please.”

“That’s probably for the best- “he hands over the cash, “but I can’t say I don’t resent you slightly.”

“That’s probably fair- “then an idea strikes me, “what’s your name?”

“Maedon- yeah, I know, okay? All of my brothers have fun names- what about you?”

“Melkor.”

“Pleased to meet you, Melkor,” he offers me a hand to shake, so I take it, and I notice the tiny tremors in his hands that come from sleep deprivation, “anyway, I’ll see you around.”

He steps around another person as he leaves. It’s usually pretty empty in here, so I hadn’t really been paying attention to any possible queue forming- I suppose that’s not very professional. When I get a good look at him, I have to take a moment to figure out if the person I’m staring at is real, or just some early-morning hallucination.

He looks completely ethereal; long, blonde hair, tied back into a loose bun, some of the strands falling out around his shoulders; smooth skin and sharp, almost cat-like features, but most stunning are his eyes: rich, bright droplets of amber that gleam with flecks of gold in the autumn light, and thick, long lashes that frame them like art in a museum. He looks pretty physically sturdy, too- I can tell he’s well-built from the way his shirt (white button-down- must be the fashionable type) folds around his chest.

He’s _exactly_ my type.

I suppose I was always a sucker for pretty things.

“Melkor, right?”

“Right,” I try my best not to stare. He must be some supermodel that happened to stumble into here in a daze of drowsiness on the way to a shoot.

“Great,” he leans forward against the counter as he talks- he’s really, _stupidly_ attractive, “what’ve you got that’s strong?”

“How strong?”

“Let’s see,” he sighs dramatically, “I’ve been trying to subsist on things that look pretty, taste nice, and do nothing for months, now- and for those same months, I’ve been regularly staying up until three in the morning and waking up at six for work. I am _severely_ tired.”

“What brings you here now, of all times?”

He hesitates a second- he seemed so sure of himself just a moment ago. “Boss isn’t watching, I suppose. Curiosity? That, too.”

“Your boss cares if you get coffee?”

“Not if- _where._ His wife runs the place down the road- though even _he_ only pretends that stuff’s strong enough. She’s a health nut who can’t mind her own business, too, always up at five AM to do morning Yoga on the roof and keeps insisting that we come join her.” He keeps talking as I fix him a triple espresso, “don’t mind it too much, though; she cares, which is good- annoying, sure, but good.”

“What do you do? Your job, I mean?”

“Jeweller- well, apprentice jeweller. I help out and I get paid and, if boss’ son ends up leaning more towards his mother’s side, I take over his company,” He smiles at me as I hand him his drink. He gives me a tenner.

“This is way too much- “

“I’m Mairon, by the way- thanks,” he hits my arm lightly as he leaves, and I have to take a minute to try and figure out if I just imagined him. And then another minute to calm my pounding heart. I wonder if he was flirting- people usually aren’t that talkative unless prompted, but I have a hard time understanding why someone like him would be interested in someone like me.

 _Mairon._ What a beautiful name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed please leave a comment!! I especially like it when you guys ask questions (reassures me that you're interested).
> 
> My Sauron/Mairon characterisation may seem off, but don't you worry, all will become clear.
> 
> Also, I feel way better writing in first person, so I tend to write a lot more and once I really get into my groove, the chapter length should go up exponentially (okay, maybe not /exponentially/ but those updates WILL be juicy!)


	2. Mairon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mairon runs into a pseudo-old flame and he's not the kind of person that brushes things off easily. Also, Osse is simultaneously the worst and best wingman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I was in North Norfolk with no laptop or wifi :') 
> 
> I also updated the playlist with a few more songs that suit this chapter a little better: https://open.spotify.com/user/thirstyforlemon/playlist/2zYu0fNKUvv96vOwmZeTvE?si=nL5npA-RR_q1ldr9naLwJA

“Mairon.”

I ignore him and keep walking; he’s the last person I want to speak to right now, with the first being something along the lines of no one at all. He’ll keep bugging me, of course, it’s not like he wouldn’t notice, but I’d rather spill my guts for him over a text chat that can be cleared at any time than a conversation on a semi-busy street where any old passer-by can hear.

The plan was to go in and get free shit using my ‘feminine charms’- at least, that was Ossë’s idea of the plan. For me it was more of a ‘see what you’re actually capable of, now that you’re in a better place’. I think it would’ve worked, too, if I hadn’t panicked. If it had been anyone but _him._

I wasn’t expecting to- I wasn’t _ready_ to see him again- not so soon. Not when the last I heard about him was that he was behind bars and that I was to stay well away for my own good. Something about the edge in Yavanna’s voice back then had paralysed me- there had been something deeper there than just step-motherly duty.

“ _Mairon.”_

“Shut up,” if I do this right, I can play it off as just another freak-out. It would take much too long to explain it to Ossë, especially since I’d have to give him the extensive (and somewhat embarrassing) background. It’d also make me look more sensitive than a freshly shaved- well. Point is, I can already imagine how he’ll react: _So what? A guy didn’t notice you six years ago- what’s the big deal?_

The big deal is that he very clearly notices me now, by the way. If he just wasn’t plain interested, it wouldn’t be an issue- but I don’t know how to explain that to Ossë without it looking like I’m reading into things too much, or worse: looking completely self-absorbed.

“I can’t believe you,” he almost looks like he’s going to actually let it go- “Mairon, _oh my god.”_

“Look, I know,” I wave my hand at him in a futile attempt to shut him up, “I know, okay?”

“Fine, fine,” he snorts, “but you’re telling me about this later, right?”

“Got it,” I say through gritted teeth- I decide to take a sip of this coffee that’s warming my palm almost uncomfortably- “Jesus fucking tits that’s strong!”

Ossë laughs harder, “I _knew_ you were a weakling,” he punches me in the arm, “too used to Yavanna’s shit.”

I glare at him, then take another sip. It’s still bitter and hot and it makes my eyes water, bit I won’t let him have the satisfaction of being right. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother tolerating him, then I remember that he’s the only one who will bother to tolerate me (outside of the shop, of course- they’re forced to tolerate me). We have a complicated kind of bond, I suppose.

Sometimes I get mean and cold and I decide that I hate him and that I don’t want anything to do with him anymore, and then he gets distant and I have to go back and re-read every text to figure out what I said wrong because I just realised how damn lonely I am without him. It’s not that he won’t tell me if I ask, it’s that I hate asking- hate admitting that I fucked it up yet again. Either that or even _he_ won’t know what I did wrong. And I _know_ that it’s my fault for self-isolating and refusing to communicate, but I just wish that he could _understand._ Maybe I’m an asshole for it, but sometimes I wish he was _less,_ too- not less successful or anything, just that he wasn’t so much to handle.

He thinks the same of me, I’m sure.

He was there for me when it was hard, and I don’t think I’m ever going to forget that. I don’t think I’m ever going to forgive him for that, either, because that’s the kind of debt you hope never to have to repay.

“You want a sip?” I hold out the cup to him.

“Yeah, not after your reaction,” he smirks, “we both know you’re better with caffeine than I am, too.”

“Suit yourself,” I wonder if I _should_ tell him now- after all, I have a free morning and an undivulged secret, besides, it would be good for me to get some fresh air- we could walk around the park- “

“Shit!” I catch him slipping his phone into his pocket- “that’s my shift- gotta head back, I’ll catch you later?”

_Of course._ “Sure- I’ll call you?”

“You don’t have to- don’t worry about it.” He rushes back down the street, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a cup of coffee that’s just a little too strong. Maybe I’ll show up early. Aulë would like that- he likes it when I’m enthusiastic- reassures him that I’m doing okay (he shouldn’t be so easily reassured).

Maybe I’ll go to the park by myself. That could be nice, but then I don’t know if I have the energy to deal with the possibility of running into a familiar face and having to stop and chat. Yavanna would probably want me to go to the park, but I still don’t know how to feel about her, let alone about her opinions of what I do in my leisure time. I doubt she’s figured out how to feel about me, either.

It must be weird marrying someone with a weird teenage foster kid that likes playing with fire and metal in the back room and using his foster father’s credit card to pay for DNA tests from shady private firms. Double weird when that same kid confides his deepest secrets in you despite only being around you a couple of months because he doesn’t know where else to go and ‘you seemed nice enough’.

Shit’s weird all round, I guess.

I still don’t know why I told her what I did- less fear maybe? Then again, there was always the looming threat of her passing it on to Aulë anyway, and if _he_ found out then…well. Or maybe it was just the kind of thing you told a mother instead, and she was the closest I got. Maybe she’s the only one I can tell about _this,_ too.  

Maybe I am too sensitive- get too attached and let myself be hurt by the smallest of things, after all, I can’t really explain why something as small as a crush could tear me up inside. I was almost glad when he was arrested- if only because it finally gave me the distance I needed to forget that pain.

My phone buzzes.

                _[29/09, 8:58] Leave Me Alone: When are you coming into work today?_

I really don’t want to deal with anyone right now, let alone Curumo begging me for help. _Come on, Mairon, you’re supposed to be a good example._ Thanks, Aulë, really makes the incessant whining tolerable.

                _[29/09, 8:59] Mairon: I’m not due in until this afternoon_

Then, because I’m really trying hard not to be too much of an asshole:

                _[29/09, 8:59] Mairon: What is it that you needed?_

_[29/09, 8:59] Leave Me Alone: You said you’d show me your current project the next time you came in_

_[29/09, 8:59] Leave Me Alone: So that you could teach me how to do that thing with the three wires?_

_[29/09, 9:00] Mairon: Can’t you ask Aulë for help?_

I put my phone back in my pocket. It buzzes again. I ignore it. Self-care.

It buzzes a second time.

I wonder if Curumo has any concept of personal space; I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a restraining order filed against him someday (I wouldn’t be surprised if I was the one who filed it, either).

“Mairon, you bastard,” I barely have time to react to the sound of Ossë’s voice before he smacks me in the back of the head.

“What- you went to work.”

“Work- “he makes air quotes as he speaks, “yeah, if my job is getting you laid.”

I can almost feel blood freeze as I shift through all of the worst-case scenarios of what he’s done in my head. I really should have said something. “What did you do?”

“I got you his number- what? You clearly like him! What’s with that look?”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re welcome,” he sighs, “don’t worry I lied about why I needed it.”

“You? Lied? What did you tell him?”

“Hey, I’m not a saint- and it’s all in the text,” he smacks my back pocket where my phone is, or my ass, whichever sounds more plausible.

_[29/09, 9:00] Reason I Drink: So, we were all classmates back in the day and we thought it would be fun to throw a reunion._

It’s almost the truth, which scares me a little. Beneath that is a number.

I save it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should finally be Maedhros, and then we'll see where this goes from there ;) I'm still working through the kinks, but at the moment it looks like I'll be covering what happens over the course of one year out of these guys' lives. 
> 
> As always, leave a comment if you enjoyed! I love hearing what you guys think- particularly if you have any questions! It's always reassuring to know that people are interested enough to ask things!


	3. Maedon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedon is having a hard time getting his father and step-uncle to get along but at least his step-cousin is nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note (again): Maedon/Maedhon is the sindarin form of Maitimo. Rostol is the Sindarin form of Russandol.

I hate these meetings.

_Please don’t make me do this, I’m not qualified, please let me stay out of this-_ no excuse seems to get to them- no plea seems to move them. I’m trying to work an actual case, right now; I don’t need to be trapped in a room with two feuding step-brothers and whoever the hell they chose to bring with them for support- dad brought mum, of course. I don’t think he realises how little she cares about this kind of thing- she came from a family of poor Irish immigrants; money is a new concept to her. Arguing about getting more money is completely alien. She’d probably make a better mediator than me.

She and I understand each other best; she won’t admit it to anyone, but I’ve always been her favourite. We look alike, and we talk alike, and we think alike. She tells me whenever she can that she doesn’t regret a single thing she did, because she got me out of it, and that was more than anything she could’ve ever asked for.

I try my best to make her proud.

As soon as I knew how I got here, I was trying to make up for it. She and I are both hard workers- well, so is my father, but it’s different; he works hard because he loves what he does—my mother and I work hard because we have no other choice. She always says I have a ‘poor man’s mentality’. I suppose she’s right about that. I always tell her that I must’ve inherited it; after all, we are far from poor now.

Argon- Fingolfin, we’re supposed to call him, now—brought his wife, too. She seems to be a lovely woman- a little older than my mother, with pale skin and long, chestnut hair that falls in gentle curls over her shoulders- she’s dressed up smart like her husband, blue blazer and frilled, cream blouse underneath. She speaks like mum, too, so I can’t help but like her. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen her- I went to their wedding when I was a baby, and then to meet my baby step-cousins when I was still a small child—but I don’t remember her well. Dad stopped being civil with them after little Argon was born. I can’t remember why.

He also brought his eldest son, which makes things complicated. In the name of fairness, I drew up an agreement that they would bring one, less involved party with them to these meetings- I even asked my _actual_ mediator friend for help. Unfortunately, I can’t really argue, since I happen to be Fëanor’s eldest son, which is the exact reason why I didn’t want to do this job.

I met him briefly at some family gathering when I was nineteen, and he was just eighteen; we were both uncomfortable with large house parties- especially ones with our grandfather (his step-grandfather)’s business friends—so we ended up hiding out in the same corner of the room. We didn’t get to talk for long, but he seemed so bright and lively that I was confused as to why he was even bothering to talk to me, a tired and depressed first year law student. He joked, calling me Rostol when I refused to tell him my name for fear that he’d stop talking to me if he knew. I couldn’t keep it hidden for long, though, not when Maglor came to get me.

It didn’t seem to bother him.

Anyway, he’s sitting here now, dressed up all formal like his parents (navy blue suits him) and he’s staring out of the window, watching the swallows nesting in the silver birch tree outside. I can’t help but follow his gaze. I can tell he doesn’t want to be here, either. We must be such pathetic eldest sons- never wanting to be in the same place as our fathers.

“Maedon?”

“Sorry- what?” I snap back to reality to find dad staring at me.

“What do you think?”

_Shit._ If I ask what he’s talking about, he’ll know I wasn’t listening, and then I’ll have to explain _why_ I wasn’t listening. Thankfully, I’m not new to faking paying attention- “elaborate- I’m still not quite sure I understand.”

“What is there to elaborate on?” mum sighs, she wants to be back in the studio. She’s also the only one that can ever tell when I’m bullshitting. “He wants to know if there’s any legal precedent for this.”

I give her a _thank you_ look.

“I’m not a- “

“Family lawyer?” Fingolfin interjects.

“Exactly that- this isn’t my job.”

“I also doubt you’re unbiased,” he continues.

“Dad- “Fingon shakes his head.

“No- no, he’s right,” I don’t want any fights, “this really isn’t fair, and I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Then figure out what you’re doing,” dad walks out. He doesn’t slam the door, thankfully. Mum sighs. She sighs a lot these days- she’s tired of all of this. I love my father- I really do—but in the time since I was a child he’s changed a lot. I don’t know how to feel about him anymore- this man who was once so determined to do right for me, now asking for that debt to be repaid.

“Shall we try this some other time?”

“I don’t know why we’re doing this at all- sorry, Maedon,” Fingolfin gives me a weak smile which much more affection than he would ever allow himself to show around my father. He has no grudge against me- I know that. He makes sure I know that. He understands that I am not responsible for my father.

“I don’t know, either,” I return the look.

“Sorry, Nerdanel,” he nods, then gets up to leave, Anairë going with him. Mum gives him a half-hearted wave.

Fingon taps my shoulder on his way out, “maybe next time, Rostol.”

Mum and I sit in silence for a bit. Neither of us want to go anywhere anymore, and neither of us particularly want to stay so, by default, we stay. I only have two things out on the table- a notepad and a pen—but in my stressed, sleep deprived haze I can’t find the focus to pick them up and throw them back into my bag, so I just sit there and stare at them. I had hoped to write out a contract or something that I could show my friend so that she could have something to go off when I inevitably referred them to her. Unfortunately, Fingolfin and my father agree on very little, so the page is blank.

They must’ve got on at some point, though, since he went to their wedding, and didn’t keep me from spending time around him. Apparently, he babysat me, too. No one will tell me what went wrong.

Mum leans across and takes my hand, “you don’t have to do this, you know.”

“How can I refuse?”

“Just say that you won’t- I know your father can come off as forceful, but he’ll respect that.”

“I just want them to get along. I just- normal families aren’t like this.”

“We’ve never been a normal family, Maedon.”

“I know, I know,” I wonder about it sometimes- my existence. She told me they were careful- I wondered how desperate I must’ve been to exist to happen anyway. Sometimes I wondered if she lied just so that she could teach me a lesson- _sometimes things don’t go to plan, so you find a way to make it work._ She used to tell me that a lot. Everything has always gone to plan for me, though; I stayed focused on my studies, made sure never to slip, worked hard, never failed, got every job I applied for, graduated at twenty-two, paid off my loans by the time I was twenty-three and in my dream job by twenty-four. I feel like I’m just waiting for something to break. I’m waiting on failure.

I wonder if she’d be as easy on me if I hadn’t been so successful.

 

“Look, I’m proud of you, okay?”

“Okay.

“Also, I need to know if you’re available to watch the twins this Saturday.”

“ _Mum.”_

“Are you?”

“Fine.”

She laughs, then makes her way out, leaving me alone with my notepad and pen.

I wasn’t expecting Fingon to still be there when I left. He was sitting on one of those plush brown couches in the lobby, leafing through an old copy of Vogue. He looks up at me when I walked in.

“What’re you still doing here?”

“Actually,” he gets up, straightening out his shirt- his blazer lies folded on the coffee table, “I was waiting for you.”

“Why? Do you need to speak to me about something?”

“I suppose that depends on how you interpret the word _need_ ,” he grins at me, “I don’t really _need_ to speak at all.”

“I didn’t take you for a pedant.”

“You’d be surprised- anyway, I had a question.”

“Shoot.”

“What’s the actual goal here- just to get everyone to get along? Or are you actually trying to stop this happening?”

“Well, that depends on who you ask- “

“What’s _your_ goal?”

“I’m not sure,” I shake my head, “sorry.”

He nods, “got it. I had another question, too.”

“Yeah?”

“What’s your number- wait- no, don’t look at me like that,” he laughs, “just I think this would be more fun for both of us if we were friends.”

“Fun?”

“Well, something like that, anyway- no pressure, though.”

I think about it for a second; maybe he’s right. I’ve been downright miserable every time I’ve had to be in the same room as my father and Fingolfin- why not have a friend there? It’s make it better. Besides, he might actually be able to finally tell me what went wrong between them all that time ago.

“Sure,” I hand him my phone.

“Neat!”

I can’t help but smile at that, and he looks genuinely excited, so I find myself feeling excited, too, and I’m still smiling when he hands me my phone back.

“Just text me whenever, okay? Preferably soon, though,” he reaches back to grab his blazer, “anyway, gotta dash- I really should be back at work.”

“Great- uh, have fun?”

“I will,” he gives me a wave as he leaves, and I realise I have no idea where he works. I didn’t even have any idea _that_ he worked.

“Huh,” I look down at my phone- he’s saved himself as _Surprise Pedant._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment of you enjoyed!! It's what makes my life worth living :')


	4. Fingon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pool manager Fingon finds his mind wandering while at work to thoughts of his cousin, and their budding friendship. Meanwhile, his father is drawn away from home by his career.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness!! Hopefully the next update should be quicker.

It gets slow watching the pool- especially during school hours, which is where I always assign myself. Everyone here is an adult- a competent swimmer; the athletic woman with the neon pink hair cap; the well-built young man with the freckles and tight speedos who only ever dives from the lowest board- at first I thought he was just nervous, now I think he has some kind of altitude sickness; or that older man who somehow swims faster than anyone I’ve ever seen, despite looking twice their age. Yes, this is professional hour and my job here is basically redundant. No one’s going to drown, save having some sort of episode in the deep end, so I get time to sit alone with my thoughts.

 Sometimes that’s a good thing; I get to think through whatever’s bothering me without interruption; sometimes it’s bad; I get to think through whatever’s brothering me without interruption.

Either way, I can’t complain about it- I assign the hours; I chose this.

I look at the clock: there’s still another ten minutes until I get off.

I’ve already thought through the usual; the crushing fear that I’ll never do anything significant and my life will have meant nothing (that’s okay- the micro is just as crucial as the macro), the fear that I’m fundamentally unlovable (I’ve been single a year- that’s _nothing_ ), the fear that I’m a bad big brother (Ari would agree); normal stuff; normal insecurities. You know, the kind of things that get boring when you’ve been through them a million times before.

So, I have two things left to fill my final half-hour of alone time.

One is just replaying the events of the day, taking catalogue, asking myself how I feel about them- the other is…harder. I always tell myself I’m going to deal with it someday. I never do. Besides, that’s a conversation I need to have with my father, not with myself. So that leaves option one, as always.

I saw Maedon again. He’s…well, he’s him. He’s as beautiful as when I last saw him- just as worried, too; part of me is concerned that the lines of his frown are going to stick on his behalf. I think I’ve only seen him properly smile once back when we were younger (note: he should smile more). I wonder if he’s just as afraid of me as Fëanor is of my father. I think that would be a shame.

But he smiled at me earlier, so he can’t be too concerned, and he agreed to be friends. I felt a little stupid asking, sure, it seemed like the kind of thing you’d say to another kid as you met them on the playground. Whatever, it worked back then. Seems to work now.

I look down at the people swimming- they’re always so graceful in the water. I like watching professionals practice.

Right, Maedon. When I first spoke to him properly, I thought he was a model- it was some big event with lots of affluent young people and even more affluent middle-aged people, there were definitely other models, so it wasn’t that much of a stretch. He really did have the genetic luck of the draw- got all of his parents’ good features and none of the bad, and he looked amazing all dressed up.

Still looks good- very tired, though. He needs a nap.

There’s still another five minutes on the clock.

Maybe I’ll get down and walk around a bit- it’s technically allowed (because I say so). Maybe I’ll just stay here and take comfort in the fact that no matter what I do time will keep moving forwards and this will end, as all things do.

Maybe I’ll count the minutes. Or maybe the seconds- a beat on the side of this chair for each one that passes. I’ll watch the swimmers and see how close I can get to an actual minute with my counting.

“Yo, Finno!”

“What?”

“You want me to take over early?” What? An angel in disguise? “Of course, I’ll take a quid from your wage if I do.”

I eye the clock- maybe I can just distract her until I actually reach the end of my shift, “you’re feeling generous today, Uinen?”

“I suppose I am.”

“I wonder why.”

“Not everything has an ulterior motive- you look bored.”

“I assure you, I am fine,” four minutes left, “but if you want to chat I don’t mind.”

“How was class?”

“Good kids- good kids today- none of them cried, though a mother did. It was pride, though. At least, I hope.”

“Maybe you’ll train the next Ossë,” she smirks at me, glint of mischief in her dark eyes.

“Oh god I hope not- I don’t want that level of arrogance on my conscience.”

She laughs, “hey, he’s not that bad- to me, at least.”

“Do you know how many times I’ve had to deal with his bullshit? Why do you even stay with him?”

“You know why,” I know why. I can see the way he looks at her; as if she’s the moon on a starless night- the only beacon of light among the darkness of space above- the only glimmer of something bright. I check the clock- two minutes left. I just need to keep distracting her for two minutes. I like this game we play; it gives me something to do when those last minutes seem to take hours longer than those first. She checks the clock, too- “c’mon, get down from there.”

“So, you guys are going well?”

“Yeah, I think so,” she leans against the side of the chair, “nothing too fast- still seems to be concerned with taking me out to nice places.”

“What a gentleman,” I raise my eyebrows at her, “he was never like that with me.”

“I could say the same about you, what did you guys even do back then?”

“I don’t think you want to know.”

“I probably don’t.”

She doesn’t know what I mean, though- she thinks she does, but I don’t think she could ever really understand- all those cancelled plans and cold kisses and late nights just talking- only ever talking, and only ever about other people. And I listened to the way he described her eyes, and how he talked about her smile and her laugh and how he confessed she was the person he thought of when he got drunk.

_“You’re in love with her, dude.”_

_“What?”_

_“You’re in love with her.”_

_“Who?”_

_“Uinen.”_

And I don’t think she could ever understand how ashamed I am that I didn’t end it until a month after that, and how I pretended to ignore the way they looked at each other, and how much I hoped that Ossë had forgotten that conversation. But what’s done is done- what’s past is past.

I look at the clock; I’m one-minute overtime.

“I win.”

“Fuck you,” she hits me in the shoulder as I get down, then laughs- “I thought you were in a hurry to leave.”

“Maybe not as much of a hurry as you thought,” I wink at her.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.”

-

When I get my phone out of my bag, I have two unread texts and a voicemail. I check the texts first because one of them is from an unknown number, which means I know exactly who it is.

_[24/09, 13:12] Unknown: This is Maedon- hi. I guess we’re friends now? (Is it that easy?)_

How to respond- do I banter? Tell him that to become my friend for real he has to pass a test? But if I’m going to kid, then I need to think of a good way to follow through. Will he get the joke? No, of course he will- it’s not like I’ve never spoken to him before- I know that he has a sense of humour. Or am I misremembering? What the hell- if he doesn’t get it it’s probably not worth being friends anyway.

_[24/09, 17:09] Fingon: I lied- there’s a ten-question quiz you must answer over the course of five weeks to test your memory of our                 conversations >:D_

_[24/09, 17:09] Unknown: Oh, thank god_

_[24/09, 17:09] Unknown: Something I’m familiar with_

_[24/09, 17:10] Fingon: First topic: food. Go._

I go to save his number, then hesitate. _Maedon?_ How boring. How un-me. But he hasn’t said anything fun that I can use to torment him yet, so a regular old nickname shall have to do. I enter him as _Rostol-_ a stupid hair joke, but it’ll do.

_[24/09, 17:11] Rostol: Uhhh okay controversial opinion: I like pineapple on pizza_

_[24/09, 17:11] Fingon: Blocked_

_[24/09, 17:11] Rostol: Well, it was nice knowing you_

_[24/09, 17:11] Fingon: If you’re going to say controversial things be prepared for controversial reactions_

_[24/09, 17:12] Rostol: And you don’t have any controversial opinions?_

_[24/09, 17:12] Fingon: No_

I go to check the other message- it’s just a mugshot Aredhel took while I wasn’t paying attention this morning. Nothing interesting. The voicemail, however, is from my father. This means two things: one is that he wants me to call him (and there’s no point listening to the message first because lord knows he’s a cryptic old man) and two is that it’s either really important in the ‘hey we’re having a family drama right now’ kind of sense or ‘really important’ in the ‘hey I need you to pick up milk on the way home’ kind of sense.

“Hey dad what’s the emergency?”

“Oh Fingon! Thank god you answered.”

“Thank god? I was at work? You know my schedule?”

“Yes, you stuck it to the fridge door for some inane reason- “

“So that people would stop trying to bother me- “

“How quickly can you come home?”

“Depends on how quickly the bus comes- unless if you’d rather I sprint it?” I’m concerned he might actually decide that that’s a good idea- our household doesn’t possess a single non-electric car. And we only have a single electric car because charging is hard. Dad’s pretty uptight about keeping things environmentally friendly- we have solar panels _and_ a garden wind turbine.

“The bus is fine.”

I hope my sigh of relief isn’t too audible- “why do you need me home so fast?”

“I’m flying to Oceania in three hours and I wanted to say goodbye in person,” I can tell he wants me to ask questions- be curious. I am, too, but I think I could guess the answer pretty accurately.

“Flood.” It’s not even a question at this point.

“Yes, a flood.”

“Don’t drown- make sure the cameras get your best angle,” I smirk, though I know he can’t see it. I wonder if the other people walking down the street have any idea what I’m talking about- probably not.

“Are you on the bus yet?”

I can see the stop from where I’m standing in the street, which means I can also see how uncharacteristically empty it is. I know what this means. I take a look at the electronic screen anyway- my bus has a nineteen-minute wait time, which is four minutes longer than it would take me to walk home from here.

“Yeah, looks like I’m walking.”

“Stay safe- I think it’s going to rain soon, too.”

“Got it,” I wonder if I brought my umbrella. Probably not.

“Oh, and one more thing,”

“Yes?”

“Would you mind picking up some milk?”


	5. Maedon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unusually lazy evening and a visit to a beloved brother.

_[24/09, 17:12] Maedon: And you don’t have any controversial opinions?_

_[24/09, 17:12] Surprise Pedant: No_

_[24/09, 17:13] Maedon: Are you absolutely sure?_

I haven’t had down time in years I don’t think- I’d completely forgotten what it was like to lounge around in bed with something vapid on the television and a bowl of snacks at my side (this time I’m watching ‘Say Yes to the Dress’ and trying to hold back my anger at the sheer number of helicopter parents who feature on it- I suppose having a nice, supporting family would be boring, but it still makes me want to scream). I’m pretty sure there must be some surprise paperwork lying around in my bag or my email inbox, but I decide to remain ignorant.

I wonder if I just say here, will I slide away into the warm waters of the evening and forget what’s real and what isn’t, waking up to just another day of work. I rarely get free time. Do I waste the time that I have? Is it a waste if I’m relaxed? Maglor’s getting in my head again, rambling about ‘meaningful experiences’ and how our lives are only so long. He’s always been Mr Pretentious- maybe I’ll call him and tell him to shut up. Maybe I’ll lecture him about how he talks like he’s eighty years old and has weathered all the wars in the world, watching his loved ones drop like flies until he was the only one standing. I’ve had three glasses of wine.

I left the window open, too, and the breeze is only slightly cool against my skin. I can see the golden glow of the sun, low in the sky reflecting on the television screen as a young woman (too pretty for her fiancé) twirls in a lace-embroidered princess gown. It’s not so cold out that I’d need a jacket. I know Maglor’s apartment is only a couple of blocks away- I could go and tell him off in person. Or I could just go outside. Or I could just keep lounging about indoors thinking about what I could do while actually just watching the same scene over and over for the empty entertainment it gives me. God, I love reality TV.

My phone buzzes against the sofa cushions.

_[24/09, 17:34] Surprise Pedant: You want to test your theory, then?_

_[24/09, 17:34] Maedon: Okay, I’ll list things and you have to tell me if you like or dislike them_

_[24/09, 17:34] Surprise Pedant: And you tell me if I’m controversial or not?_

_[24/09, 17:34] Surprise Pedant: Sounds good_

I watch the screen was we play. It’s a fun game- he seems pretty good-natured. He doesn’t seem to deviate at all from the image I built up of him from those ten minutes of conversation when we were younger, which worries me a little. I don’t think I’m that good at reading people.

The sun will set soon- I can have this conversation at any time- if I want to go out, I ought to do it now. The copper leaves of the tree outside my window beckon to me, rustling in the breeze. Fuck it. What’s the point of having younger siblings if you don’t get the privilege of annoying them whenever you please.

I keep texting Fingon as I walk.

_[24/09, 17:41] Maedon: Peanut butter?_

_[24/09, 17:42] Surprise Pedant: Salty_

_[24/09, 17:42] Maedon: That’s not an opinion_

_[24/09, 17:42] Surprise Pedant: it is if you try hard enough_

My hair’s getting in my eyes again- I should probably get a hair cut. It’s always looked nicer short anyway, when it gets long I have to actually put in the time and effort to brush it, which makes my curls lose all their definition so that it looks like I’m just wearing static flyaways on my head.

_[24/09, 17:43] Maedon: Okay, sweets: liquorice?_

_[24/09, 17:43] Surprise Pedant: Enjoyable_

_[24/09, 17:43] Maedon: I feel like that probably is controversial, but I agree so I’m not going to press_

I can see the sun starting to set now- casting that warm, golden glow onto the undersides of the clouds. I take a moment to stop and look at the sky- you can’t see the sunset from the ground that well thanks to the all of the high-rise apartments and skyscrapers, but if you look up you can usually catch a glimpse of the colours reflected on the windows of buildings. People paint this city a lot. I don’t struggle to understand why.

I buzz Maglor’s doorbell.

“What are you doing here?” He sounds tired, probably stayed up too late writing or something.

“I could be the postman for all you know- don’t be so rude.”

“I can see you from my window.”

“Disguised postman.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I got bored.”

“You? Bored?” He snorts, “but you’re always complaining about how much work you have.”

“Can you just let me in, so I can bother you in person?”

“What a compelling argument,” the door clicks, “you’ve convinced me.”

“Thank you.” He’s standing at the door in a baggy shirt (stained slightly with- what is that? Wine?) and pyjama bottoms, the bags under his eyes large enough for a three-week trip to Tenerife, and his hair loosely pulled back so that more of it could be considered ‘falling out’ of the ponytail than could be considered part of it. “Did you die while I wasn’t checking up on you?”

“It’s my day off- cut me some slack.”

I go straight to check his kitchen cabinets- “these are all empty- “then his fridge- “you can’t live off wine and frozen premade fish pie, Maglor- also, you don’t keep unopened wine in the freezer- _also,_ this is just me being picky, but wine from a carton? Seriously?”

He shrugs, “It’s not unopened, I just screw the cap on tight.”

“What the hell happened to you?”

“I graduated? I don’t even know anymore,” he reaches round me and grabs the carton of wine, “work is…slow. I don’t think they want me around, but they need me there just in case. They keep sending me home early on full pay.”

“You do realise that’s literally anybody else’s dream, right?”

“Suck my ass,” he takes a swig straight from the carton.

“Wait- how drunk are you right now?”

He tips the carton over when he’s done, only a single drop forms around the lip- “that drunk.”

“Alright, you need help-  I’m calling mum.”

He groans, “please don’t.”

I know it’s an empty threat anyway. Instead, I go back to checking his cupboards: only one is full, and even then, it’s the one I helped him stock when I did this exact thing a month ago. It’s all the canned stuff- soup, vegetables, even different types of fish and sausages. You can get literally anything canned.

“Question: what have you been eating?”

“Take-aways. I order pizza a lot, too.”

“How does tomato soup sound?” I squint at the can.

“You’re going to cook for me?”

“I’m going to heat you up a can of tomato soup, if that’s what you mean.”

“Go right ahead,” he wanders back round into the living room and slumps down on the couch, crinkling the sheets upon sheets of music that he just keeps lying around for some reason; maybe it’s for the aesthetic? Maybe it’s so he really _can_ fit the starving artist stereotype. It’s not like it’s _all_ for show, though- I’ve heard him play. When he was a kid they thought he was a prodigy.

“Mum was wrong to believe you could survive on your own.”

“Look, it’s not like I don’t _know_ how to do things, it’s more that I just can’t be bothered.”

I pour the soup into the pan and start heating it- it takes a few tries to get the stove on, but at least it still seems to be working. It’s not dirty at all; I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“Your skin looks great, though.”

“L’Oréal skin brightening clay mask,” he’s got a headache, too. I can tell because he always does that thing where he scrunches his eyes shut when he’s in pain, and he isn’t talking as much as usual. His words sound a little strained. Thankfully, I always keep paracetamol on me (my profession comes with a whole lot of headaches.) He’s not wearing his binder, either.

“Are you doing okay?”

“What does it look like?”

“I’m going to say no?”

“I’m fine- this is fine,” he sits up straight, “I think I’m going to quit.”

“Your job?”

“Yeah.”

“But that’s your dream- “

“They don’t want me there- “he gestures to the mess of his apartment- “I mean, just look around here. I don’t go out anymore.”

He does look unusually pale- way too pale, in fact, “are you sick?”

“No.”

“You look sick- wait, ah, let me check your temperature,” I don’t wait for him to agree (brother’s privilege); I dart round to him. He’s burning up. “Mags, you have a _fever._ ”

“Your hands are just cold. That’s an unreliable method anyway- just feed me.”

I look back at the soup- it’s starting to bubble up in the pan. It should be warm enough. I dump the packet of paracetamol into his lap- “take it, don’t overdose, leave four hours between and you always need less than you think you do.”

“Thanks- “I ruffle his hair- his curls are nicer than mine; the kind that you don’t need to worry too much about taking care of. Or maybe he just learnt how to take care of them better. I wouldn’t know. His hair’s thicker, though, so maybe that helps. I consider leaving him alone with the pan, but I don’t think he’d ever get around to serving it, so I do that for him, instead.

“Drink more water, Mags.”

“Thanks.” He dismisses me with a wave and I go.

Another text.

_[24/09, 16:01] Surprise Pedant: Had to eat (controversial things)_

_[24/09, 16:01] Surprise Pedant: Where were we?_

_[24/09, 16:01] Maedon: Jellybeans_

_[24/09, 16:02] Surprise Pedant: Delicious. Next._

_[24/09, 16:02] Maedon: Sour lollypops_

_[24/09, 16:02] Surprise Pedant: Fine_

_[24/09, 16:03] Maedon: Lovehearts?_

The pink of the sky reminded me of them- it’s fading now, though; becoming the start of the deep blue sea of the night sky. An ocean of infinity- I heard the Egyptians believed the sky was one great ocean, but I read that on the internet, so I don’t know if I trust that. Either way, it’s a good concept.

Fingon replies quickly enough.

_[24/09, 16:03] Surprise Pedant: Gross_

_[24/09, 16:04] Maedon: Controversial!_


	6. Maglor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor shows up to work to find a brand new threat to his livelihood and a new reason to care about his job.

There’s someone new at work; another composer, apparently. So, they’re looking to replace me. I can’t say that I’m surprised in any way, but it does encourage me to play a little better on the fancy antique violin they hand me to show off with. It’s an orchestra tradition; whenever someone new shows up, we play solo for them with a random instrument thrown at us, then they do the same. We all embarrass ourselves together. Except I don’t; I’ve always had what dad called a ‘downright creepy’ ability to pick up instruments within minutes. I always told him that it was easy as soon as you figured out all of the notes.

“My name is Maglor, I’m twenty-two and my instrument of choice is the harp- so I’ll be playing the violin,” he smirks a little. His teeth are way too straight.

I play a short tune- something sweet that turns into something dramatic and complicated and, most importantly, something impressive. He doesn’t look impressed. I suppose he must think that I was a violinist before (technically not wrong, but I’m proficient in most instruments at this point). He’s up next- I’m curious as to what he sounds like.

“My name is Daeron,” French accent, huh? “I’m twenty-four and my instrument of choice is vocals and I suppose I shall play the harp.”

He looks directly at me with rich hazel eyes, and I can feel the blood rush to my cheeks. His eyelashes are way too thick, too. Is there any part of him that isn’t too perfect? His nose has a slight hump in it, which I suppose technically counts as ‘imperfect’, though I never saw why. Maybe his top lip is slightly too small for his bottom lip, but it suits his face. He has freckles, but that’s no imperfection; after all, half my family have them.

Vocalists are generally awful with instruments other than the piano or guitar, though, so I suppose I’ll feel less threatened after he starts playing.

But then he starts playing.

The tune is plays is beautiful, slow, elegant- the notes fill the room and fill my mind and I can’t help but let the tension in my shoulders go as he plays. It has the unfortunate quality of reminding me of my grandmother’s lullabies from those brief periods when she was okay enough for us to stay with her.

When the music fades away, our eyes meet, and I raise my eyebrows at him. He’s clearly a professional harpist, otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to create a piece so enchanting on a whim. Everyone claps, then some muse aloud if he simply didn’t understand the objective of the game, after all, ‘he’s foreign, isn’t he? Didn’t you hear his accent?’

I approach him and offer him my hand, but when he takes it I make sure to grip a little too loose for it to be comfortable, “Daeron, right?”

“Yes, what was your name again?”

I can tell by the glint in his eyes that he’s only pretending to forget. So, it’s going to be like _that,_ is it? “Maglor- you’re a professional?”

“Not so, Maglor.” He leans back against the wall all casual as if this isn’t his first day here. “I think you and I are alike in our talents, no?”

“No,” I say, “I think you cheated.”

“Unfortunately, that is not the case,” he laughs, “I wanted to play the game honestly, but there isn’t a single instrument I haven’t been able to master.”

“How intriguing,” I say, taking care to sound as monotonous as possible, but I can feel a break in the back of my throat, so I try to keep my statements short and sweet- or rather, short and sour. If they were going to replace me, I wish they’d at least picked someone a little more humble. This guy’s a complete twat.

“Maglor you are- what’s the word? You are being very cool towards me.” He looks right into my eyes, and I notice all of the flecks of moss-green, and the cool brown and the tiniest glimpse of a blue sky; there’s a whole forest in those eyes. “Have I done something?”

“I’m just British.” _And also, you’re my super-talented, very attractive, more experienced replacement._

“You Brits are very strange,” he laughs, “but I suppose that’s the culture here. As composers, I think we’ll be working together a lot, so I hope we can get along.”

“So, you remember that I’m a composer, but not what my name is?”

“It’s an unusual name,” he says, after a minute of painful silence in which I wish I never brought it up.

“I like it,” I say, almost under my breath. I think about how desperately I want to show him up, how desperately I feel the need to prove that he’s wrong, that he’s worse, that I’m worthy of my talent, my title, my own goddamn _name,_ “we should have a little competition- for fun, of course.”

“For fun…” He narrows his eyes. “What do you have in mind?”

“We’ll write a song each- to be played on the harp, with lyrics,” I see his eyes light up as I speak- this is the kind of challenge he wants, too, “and the others will judge whose is the best.”

“Music is subjective,” he says, “we should have a theme to work to, to make it easier.”

“Rebirth.” I hope he’ll agree, because I’m almost one-hundred-percent certain he won’t have experienced ‘rebirth’ in the same way I have. Is it dishonest to give myself an unfair advantage? Sure, but I don’t think I could handle the weight of losing to him. He smiles.

“I like that.”

“Then we’re on?” I hold out my hand to him.

“We’re on.”


	7. Mairon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mairon has a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update- spoons are low and I've been pretty busy! I've never really had an upload schedule, but I do feel the need to apologise for going almost two weeks without updating.

Generally it’s considered bad to be up at two in the morning apologising for your idiot of a best friend’s lies- generally it’s considered bad to let minor dishonesty get to you so much that it keeps you up until two in the morning, unfortunately I’m watching Aiwendil, and so I have to be the ‘responsible’ and ‘mature’ big brother and good influence that Aulë knows I can be, and the kid kept asking me who I was texting while we were supposed to be watching Countryfile (what ten-year-old is that interested in cows?) He ended up stealing my phone, and he wouldn’t have known it was a lie, unless if Ossë hadn’t texted me at that exact moment.

So, like the good and responsible big brother I am, I promised I would tell the truth- then the bugger told me he’d tell Aulë and Yavanna if I didn’t prove to him that I had, so now I don’t have any choice, because I can’t let them know.

_[25/09, 02:04] Mairon: this is going to make me sound really pathetic so beforehand i just want to clarify that it was ossë’s fault_

_[25/09, 02:04] Mairon: there is no meet-up- he never even went to the same college as you_

I’m careful not to give away that it was only a half-lie.

_[25/09, 02:05] Melkor: I was wondering about that, but I don’t actually remember shit from college_

Well that’s…flattering? At least I’m not special, though I can’t tell if he’s being tactful or not- trying to hide that he _knows_ it’s not entirely false. Trying to hide that he _does_ remember me. But that’s just wishful thinking, and I don’t indulge in wishful thinking. Much.

_[25/09, 02:05] Mairon: now that’s off my chest, i ought to go to bed, sorry about that_

_[25/09, 02:05] Melkor: Wait_

_[25/09, 02:05] Melkor: First of all, thank Ossë for me because I really enjoy talking to you_

_[25/09, 02:06] Melkor: Second, since we’re being honest about our intentions: do you want to go on a date?_

My fingers shake over the keypad.

_[25/09, 02:06] Mairon: to to bed_

_[25/09, 02:06] Mairon: *go_

_[25/09, 02:06] Melkor: Is that a no?_

Is it a no? It’s a ‘go to bed, sleep on this, see if you still want me when you wake up’, I suppose, but that’s not exactly the kind of thing you tell someone who you want to like you. There’s a definite part of me that desperately wants whatever this might become, but there’s an equally desperate part of me that wants to run and stay far, far away, because I don’t know his full story, and I don’t know if he’s dangerous or not.

But then a more powerful, and a little self-destructive, part of me is saying that if I don’t try, I’ll never know, and I don’t think I could live never having known.

_[25/09, 02:07] Mairon: it’s a tentative yes_

_[25/09, 02:07] Melkor: Tentative?_

_[25/09, 02:07] Mairon: as in ‘if you dare wake-up and tell me you didn’t mean it i’ll have to kill you’_

_[25/09, 02:08] Melkor: How about I say we go out to eat as soon as you’re done with work tomorrow? Just for security_

I decide not to ask him how he knows for certain that he’ll be free then.

_[25/09, 02:08] Mairon: actually, i have the whole day off_

_[25/09, 02:08] Melkor: Lunch? I’ll meet you at the park around 12?_

_[25/09, 02:09] Mairon: sounds great, now go to bed_

But as I lay back, I don’t feel entirely comfortable- there’s this indefinable feeling of ‘this is significant’ racing through my mind, and I can’t shake it. I feel as if I’m standing at the top of a cliff, and there’s no fence guarding the edge, but I’m still far enough away from it to be safe. Just, I can’t properly see where the cliff stops, and I know that I’m safe as long as I stay where I am, but I’m curious enough that I might throw myself over just to see where the land ended.

* * *

 

Yavanna stops me at the door, of course.

“You’re dressed up, Mairon,” she smiles, “has this got something to do with this person Ai says you’ve been texting.”

“Oh? What did he tell you?” I try to remember if I stressed the importance of him not telling anyone to him or not- I was tired. I probably forgot. Fuck.

“Just that you’re seeing someone,” her eye contact is intense as she lowers her voice, “I hope this helps you get over that Melkor.”

I smile and nod. It’s all I can do.

Then she lets me leave, and I can feel my hands shaking because no matter how complicated my feelings are towards her, I know that she cares about me, and I don’t like that I have to abandon that care. I also wish she didn’t care- mostly because it would be easier.

I stop at the gate- I don’t know why; I think part of me wants to turn back now, before anything gets worse, but another part of me knows that turning back has way too many implications to be viable, so I leave, and I can feel the sun hitting my face as I step out into the street- it’s a nice day. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea.

He’s waiting for me on the street corner, dressed a little nicer than when I last saw him; his dark hair has been washed and combed through properly, and he’s shaved. Good god, he’s incredibly handsome- I almost forgot about that. I try not to wear that particular thought on my sleeve- I learnt the hard way that it’s always best to seem interested in a calculated way, rather than a genuine one. It helps you distance yourself, too. What the hell? I’m talking about him like he’s some guy I’d pick up in the dark corner of a bar and take to the bathroom for- well.

“Mairon- “he grins, which is something I don’t actually think I’ve seen him do before. His smile is strange- all sharp canines and teeth that are much whiter than they seem like they should be, knowing the things I do about him. “You look really good.”

“Thanks,” I say. _It’s calculated,_ I think. I didn’t realise it while I was getting ready, but I was thinking about it like _that_ again. “So, where do you want to go?”

“I’m not sure- I thought I’d let you choose.” He can’t seem to hold eye contact with me for long- he keeps looking away at things behind me, or to my sides. I’m somewhat grateful- I think it’d be hard to look him in the eye for too long. If I were trying to get laid, I’d ask to go to a bar- medium price range, adults only and with soft, preferably red or purple-toned lighting—then I would order two shots of Vodka for myself and see what would happen. But I don’t want to be that person anymore.

“McDonald’s.”

“Really?”

“Yes; it’s cheap, so neither of us are going to be broke from eating out, it’s filling, which is just a good thing, and also I want McDonald’s.” I stare at him.

“Surprisingly well thought through,” he laughs, “alright then.”

“Can’t tell if you’re insulting me- I have an engineering degree, Melkor.”

“And there I was thinking you had a modelling degree.”

I snort- “that’s not a thing.”

“Yeah it is- I’ve met people with them.”

“But you just stare at a camera and look seductive- I can do that!”

“Didn’t say I didn’t think it was a rip-off.”

I laugh, and he smiles at me again- his smile is strange and crooked, as if he hasn’t had much practice. It makes me want to make him smile.

We eat greasy burgers (deliciously so) and talk for three hours.

He tells me about his perfect brother, and I ask him about the edge in his voice, but he doesn’t seem to want to elaborate. I tell him about Aulë and Yavanna and Aiwendil and he has the courtesy not to mention how quiet I go when I speak their names. I learn that he’s never been drunk, and I ask him why, but he just shrugs and tells me that’s not the kind of buzz he enjoys. I want to ask him hard questions, too: _why did you vanish? Why didn’t you see me before? Why do you see me now?_

Instead, we talk about music, and Netflix originals, and I find out his favourite soft drink is Pink lemonade, but only because people make the best facial expressions when he tells them that.  

I make a conscious effort to demonstrate my own intelligence at every turn, but I’m not sure that it doesn’t just seem like I’m showing off. There’re scars on his hands, too. Strange ones- red and white and various other shades of discolouration around his fingertips. I’m not sure if he notices me staring, but he takes my hands, so that I can feel that the skin on his is barely disturbed by whatever it is that’s marked them.

He offers to walk me home, but I refuse- _for all I know, you could just be waiting to kill me,_ I joke, then I bite my tongue, because I forgot that might not be the best joke given the situation. But he laughs, and it’s a warm sound, that makes my chest stir.

 _That Melkor is trouble,_ I can hear Yavanna scolding me in the back of my mind.

 _Oh, I know,_ I can feel whatever care I had for that warning slipping away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will likely be a little shorter, as it's more to bridge the gap between the 'setting stuff up' part of the story and the actual story part. Things will get more exciting from here on out, I promise!


	8. Maedon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mae babysits his little brothers, except he's not as responsible as he likes people to think, so instead he spends the time calling Fingon.

I watch the twins while my parents visit my grandmother. And when I say ‘watch’ the twins, I mean ‘lock myself in the kitchen and spy on them through the window while they carry out whatever shenanigans it is this time in the garden’. They’re twelve now, so they should be able to take care of themselves soon- or at least Curufin should be able to take care of them, instead. Why isn’t he? Fuck if I know.

They tell me she’s getting better- the nurses say that she seems to have a lot more energy than before, and she’s started up her work again, embroidering pretty things, instead of disturbing ones. They say it’s flowers she likes; dandelions, daffodils and buttercups; yellow roses lit by the sun. They send me pictures of her work, and I can’t help but marvel over the intricacies of the design. She was an artist, they used to tell me- still is, just now she’s lost her spark.

I don’t get to see her much, but dad always assures me that she’s kept well-informed about me. I doubt she cares all that much about me, though; even when we were all little, she liked Mags best. I suppose she could tell that he was going to be most like her from the start, what with all his wailing and his tendency to see things just that tiny bit darker than a child should.

I keep my eye on him, just in case.

I think the twins must’ve learnt not to mess around too much since the last time I watched them (I think mum must’ve murdered them after _that_ ) since they don’t seem to be doing anything actually dangerous, just playing with the ants’ next down the end of the garden.

Curufin is upstairs in his room doing god knows what, and I don’t want to find out. All the others have fucked off the uni. It feels strangely lonely with only the four of us home- I can only imagine how mum feels (I’m not sure dad would notice, with the amount he works).

I miss us all being together all the time, no matter how often we got in each other’s way.

I get the urge to talk to Fingon.

We’ve been talking a lot over the past few days; he’s easy to talk to, which I like. He tells me I’m charismatic and I laugh at him. I let him know there’s a reason I don’t tell any stories about my friends. His friends sound fun, though- complicated and a little dramatic, but fun.

I now know his favourite colour, food, breed of cat and his favourite parent (this seems like something I should _not_ know) as well as his least favourite baby name (it’s Thomas- he says it reminds him too much of trains at this point to ever be useable). I also figured out _why_ he’s so easy to talk to: he’s a massive oversharer who never shuts up and I’m a nosy bastard who likes to hear about other people’s lives. I suppose it makes up for my lack of a real one.

I decide to call him. I know he doesn’t work Saturdays. He picks up almost immediately.

“What a pleasant surprise,” I can hear the grin in his voice. It’s infectious. “What brings you to my, uh, phone line? I didn’t think this sentence through.”

I laugh. Then I remember that I don’t really have anything in particular to talk about, “just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Woah- okay there.”

“Wait- no!” I laugh, “not like that- I mean not as if- “

“No, no; I understand,” his laugh really is way too catching. “What are you doing right now that you’re bored enough to call me without anything to talk about?”

“Babysitting.”

“Babysitting!” He gasps, “who? How old are they?”

“You seem excited- they’re my little brothers and they’re twelve.”

“My siblings are all too old for me to baby them,” he sighs, “I miss it.”

“Why don’t you come over and help, then?” The words seem to almost slip out of my mouth. I can’t quite remember what tone I used to say them- was I sarcastic? Did I make it a challenge? Or an offer? Was I gentle? Or enthusiastic? (I wouldn’t be surprised if some of Fingon’s enthusiasm had rubbed off on me- he’s just got that kind of personality that rubs off on you). “I mean- “

“I’d love to,” he sounds a little strange- as if taken by surprise- he was.

“You don’t have to- “

“No, I want to.”

“Then you’ll have to come over.”

“I suppose I will.”

“I suppose you wi- I need to give you the address.”

“You do.”

“I’m going to hang up.”

“Goodbye.” He’s grinning again- his voice is so stupidly expressive. It crosses my mind that he’s the exact kind of person that I always imagined myself falling for, and that makes me hesitate- because that would be a worst-case scenario in every way. A real Romeo and Juliet situation  . Except gay. And with pseudo-incest. A _very_ bad scenario.

I’ll just have to be extra careful not to fall for him.

He shows up dressed down in a tight t-shirt and slacks; he’s built pretty stocky; I think it would take a lot to knock him over. His hair is unkempt, but he manages to make it work. He’s attractive, I think, and then I have to catch myself, because I did promise myself that I’d be extra careful. Pseudo-incest, remember? That’s bad, right?

“My eyes are up here.”

“What?” I didn’t realise I’d been staring.

“Also, before you ask- yes, I am wearing crocs, but only because I couldn’t find anything else. They’re my sister’s.”

“I hadn’t- “I look down- bright neon green- “oh, you really are. How could you not find anything else?”

“I was in a hurry, asshole.”

“Why?”

“Spontaneity has a time limit.”

“Deep.” I nod.

He punches me in the arm (a little harder than he meant to, I think). “Shut up!”

“My brothers are in the garden- “

“Cool- I’m going to go hang out with them, because you’re being an ass- “he sticks his tongue out at me- “ta!”

I watch him as he makes his way to the garden (slipping of the crocs before he goes outside, I note- after all, being roasted by a twelve-year-old probably would be fun). It’s only been a few days of talking- much too soon to look at someone romantically, let alone someone like _him,_ but I suppose I’m not- not really. I can just feel some sort of _potential_ for-

He’s getting on surprisingly well with the twins, too.

I’m doomed.

But for now, at least, I can hope that maybe I _won’t,_ by some miracle, end up falling for him. After all, this feeling usually passes anyway, and it would be easier if it did. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up and realise how stupid this whole thing is. Then we’ll be normal, non-romantic friends.

My phone lights up with a text from my father as if on cue:

_[29/09, 02:07] Dad: She’s getting out_


	9. Maglor

“Sure you won't regret this, son?” He's trying to make it sound casual, but the amount of times he's used that first part of the sentence against me leaves something hanging in the air.

 

“I'm sure, dad, don't worry.”

 

“You work too hard, you know; you could do with a break,” mum sounds tired, but I know better than to ask, besides I'm not sure it isn't just how her voice sounds. It's hard to tell over the phone.

 

“It's alright- I'm enjoying myself,” I lie. I'm enjoying imagining wiping that stupid smug look of Daeron’s face when I win against him. I'm not enjoying the work I'm doing to get there. I mean, I could probably just wait for an excuse to punch him, and then do that, but also that's a very Celegorm tactic, and I don't want to steal his thunder.

 

“She misses you, you know- I think she'd like to see you.” Dad's voice is surprisingly tender, “she always says how proud she is of you.”

 

“I'm sure she is proud of me, and I'm going to make her even more proud by winning this stupid competition-”

 

“So, you admit it's stupid-” it's surprising how I can _hear_ the raised eyebrow in his voice.

 

“Did I say that? My _opponent_ is stupid, at least, and when I win- which I will-- I'll make her proud.”

 

“Of course, you will,” he chuckles, “at least try and find time to come and visit once you've won- I think she'd like to be proud of you in person.”

 

“Will do.” I hang up and turn back to my notes.

 

It’s not that I don’t care about going to see my grandmother- make sure that she’s okay, but I’m also supposed to be the one that takes the most after her- young artist whose life gets thrown around by unexpected circumstances, makes decisions everyone thinks they’ll regret, and pushes themselves too hard and too fast-- so I know that if I lose this competition, she’ll blame herself. I know that I would.

 

Besides, I _do_ genuinely want her to be proud of me for beating this prick.

 

I know she would be.

 

When I say she and I are similar, I mean we’re _similar._ Of course, she and Caranthir share their same love of the visual arts, but she and I just _click._ Even when I was a kid, she called me ‘one of the boys’, and she wasn’t in the least bit surprised when I came out to her. When I was little, I’d always spend as much time with her as I could, then when I was old enough to go and visit her by myself, I’d go every weekend. And we’d just sit and have tea and talk for hours on end until the sun started to set, and she told me to ‘run along home before your parents start to worry’, with a weak smile and a gentle wave of her hand. She always sat up straight- used to look almost queenly; you’d never imagine that once upon a time she was a sixties hippie wearing flower crowns and distressed denim dungarees with only a purple lace bra on underneath (Indis showed me the photos while dad wasn’t looking).

 

She always looked so happy and youthful in those photos- long, pale hair (almost silver, even back when she was young) falling in gentle curls down her back, arm raised, and hands spattered with all the colours of spring, painting on a canvas that was usually bigger than she was- usually you could see my grandfather watching her in the background with the stupidest smile on his face. Sometimes he traded places with Indis, who always seemed to be standing as close as possible to Miriel, playing with her hair or leaving dark lipstick kisses on her cheeks as they both laughed. They always looked so happy in photographs.

 

She always smiled when I spoke to her, but the grin never seemed to spread all the way to her eyes- not that it was fake. She was always genuine, but always sad. At first it was the post-partum, like everyone says, but I think she recovered from that. Now she’s sad because of everything she missed out on (though I doubt she’d ever admit it out loud). I would be, too.

 

Part of me wonders if I made myself a boy so that I’d never have to worry about that. The rest of me knows that’s not true, but there’s always that one part that can’t help but doubt.

 

I turn over the page- fuck- I already used the other side of that one. I take another sheet- doubt is a strong emotion, though I’m not sure if it’s poetic in the way I need it to be- it’s too rough and chaotic for my needs. Besides, I’m transparent enough that my colleagues might start taking issue with me if they knew I dared to _doubt._ Rebirth- rebirth… I thought that this would be easy- ha! I suppose I always do.

 

I turn the sheet over again without writing anything.

 

I write down the theme: ‘Rebirth’, in neat cursive at the top.

 

I turn the sheet over again. I write it in print.

 

At this rate it looks like I’m going to lose this competition regardless of whether I go to see Miriel or not, but I don’t want her to worry, so I resolve not to go.

 

“Rebirth- rebirth-” I say it out loud, then an idea strikes me, “renaissance,” I catch myself smiling a little.

 

I don’t want to waste paper, so underneath the print of ‘rebirth’ I write out ‘renaissance’ in looping cursive, then I put down the paper, and strum a few notes on the harp, sweet and clear- they ring around the room. I can feel the breeze from the open window caress my cheek- cool the warm skin under my shirt, as I play, and I let it guide my hands.

 

My grandmother sang me to sleep, when she was well enough- she was just quirky enough to compose her own lullabies. I find myself strumming out the tune to one of them and remembering how she sang; her voice wasn’t especially powerful or clear, nor was she any great musician, but the slight rasp in her throat, and the highness of her voice as she sang- as if she were still twenty, singing to her newborn son, instead of forty, and singing to her grandson. I never heard her sing in English, either- it was always the language of her mother.

 

So, when the lyrics finally slip off of my tongue, I sing them in French.

 

Then I realise: that won’t do at all.

 

So, I set to translating it back into English, but some of the words don’t have equivalents, and they don’t fit the rhyme scheme, so by the time I’m done, I have almost a completely different song.

 

“Renaissance, my ass,” I scowl at the sheet. At least it sounds passable. At least it’s done.    

 

Somehow it got dark out while I was working, and I’m hungry now, and my head hurts.

 

God, I wish Maedhros was here to make me soup again, because lord knows I’m too lazy to do it for myself. I should order takeaway again. He mocks me, but little does he know that there is such thing as takeaway salad (not that I’m ordering it, but still).  

 

The clock says it’s already nine fifteen- too late to go and help grandma pack, then.

 

I have work for the rest of next week (don’t want to skip a day- it’d feel like losing to Daeron).

 

I’ll drop by next weekend.

 

Now she’s out, I suppose I can drop round anytime I please.


	10. Daeron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daeron meets an old friend for coffee on a weekend visit back to his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning: this chapter contains alluded child abuse (Daeron is an abuse survivor), so if you're triggered by that, you should probably skip it.

Mablung smirks at me when I explain the situation and tells me that I should be working – I have a competition to win, after all. I tell him that I don’t care about that, otherwise why would I be here? Risking my own sanity to have coffee with the only friend whose number hasn’t changed since the last time I called. I consider for a moment that that is incredibly sad but, then again, I did want to start anew, did I not?

“Where is Beleg?”

“He got distracted- “

“With what?”

“Some American tourist asked him to show him to some old-timey inn- he’s still in Belgium.”

“But that’s a forty-minute drive- I’m not waiting around forty minutes after I’ve finished.”

Mablung rolls his eyes at me, “tell me about your opponent.”

“Seems young, about 5’11’’, very witty, rude, _British-_ “I snort as I realise I’m quoting him directly, “talented- yes, very, very talented…” My voice drops away as a group of people make their way down the street- I scan the crowd for familiar faces. _This was a bad idea._

“How talented?”

“Hm?” I pinch my forearm under the table.

“How talented?”

“Oh! As much as I am- maybe more, though I can’t imagine that would be easy- “I catch myself; after all, pride comes before a fall. Though I do suppose that I’m not really worried I’ll lose- except, now that I’m thinking about it, I can feel the nerves creeping through me. This Maglor does seem capable in a way that no one else ever has. Mablung is staring now, eyebrows raised- he’s the only one for miles who can make any sort of decent guess at what I’m thinking (I’m not sure whether to be grateful or annoyed).

“ _Tell_ me about your opponent.”

I sigh- he wants _detail:_ “his name’s Maglor Fëanorion, plays the harp, his grandfather owns one of the biggest music labels in the UK and for some reason he _isn’t_ taking advantage of that. He’s very pretty, and I’m going to let him win- “

“I can’t believe you- “

“Really?” Now it’s my turn to raise my eyebrows, and lie, “I have nothing to prove, and he appears to have everything. Why shouldn’t I let him win?”

“Because that’s how he gets you- tricks you into thinking it matters to him, then utterly wrecks you as he wins.

“But if it’s for the purpose of tricking me, then it must matter to him in some way,” I get side-tracked arguing over my lie. Ah, well: it isn’t as if this would be the first time.

“Beating you matters to him.” Mablung smirks, then leans back as if he’s just ended the conversation with some kind of bomb-drop statement. Then he realises I look completely unimpressed, and adds: “Do you really think you could handle not knowing for certain that you were the best?”

“At least I’d have the excuse of not trying- “

“And you’re okay with him underestimating you?”

“Mablung, will you let this go?”

“No, my friend- “he slips a pen under my hand as it rests upon the cool metal table, closing my fingers around it with his own- “after all, I need _some_ way to keep you here for forty minutes.”

I smile a little; I can’t help it. I may as well write something, if it means so much to him that we wait for Beleg.

We spend a good hour waiting, as I hum out tunes and Mablung tells me why he hates them and why they’re unsophisticated and clumsy, even though we both know full well that he’s completely wrong. But I make change after change nonetheless, because Mablung rarely listens to music so, if I can make something that impresses him, then I can impress anybody.

It’s good to know someone hard to please.

And the more I get into it, the more I can feel that part of me that tends to hang its toes over the edge of the cliff awaken- because I’m thinking about my opponent- about what he will do, and what I can do to upstage him. And I’m thinking about everything I picked up from our first meeting; the way his curls framed his dark eyes- like soft, dark leather in colour, and intense in their gaze; I’m thinking about the way his hands move on the instruments that he plays with perfect precision, and the way he feels through the rhythm as he plays; I’m thinking about his voice and wondering how it sounds when made into music.

And I can’t lie to myself; I’m _interested._ He intrigues me in a way none of the others did, because as much as he claims his rudeness is down to being British, none of the others were so open about their disdain. I wonder what kind of thing could trigger a defence mechanism such as that.

I wish that was my defence mechanism, or maybe I wouldn’t be here, with the only friend whose number hasn’t changed since I last called, waiting for someone who seemingly will never arrive.

A text from Beleg, he tells me, saying that he won’t be able to make it (with a wink emoji). So much for catching up, then. I wish there was some way I could contact him personally, but I deleted every shred of evidence that I ever existed online, changed my number, and fled the country: _all for a girl?_ Mablung asked me before I left, and I nodded, because lying out loud seemed a little too bold back then. I’ve gotten better at lying since.  

I’m a little too close to my hometown, and I still don’t know if my mother ever moved away after I left, for all that she haunted me in Paris.

“What’s _that_ look- “

“Nothing,” I say, but I’m too quick to answer for it to sound natural. Mablung stares at me, and I run my fingers over the scar on the inside of my palm under the table, “it’s really nothing,” I repeat myself, this time with that perfectly calculated fake laugh of mine- the one that says _drop it, it’s not important._

Maybe I should’ve considered that I might cross paths with her if I came back here. I don’t let the casual ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ expression drop from my face until well after I’ve said goodbye- _I need to get home and compose this, after all—_ and I head straight for the station. Who cares if my ticket is for Monday? I just want to get out of this place as quickly as I can.

Run off to find new, interesting people to tear myself apart over, and leave all the old, scary ones behind.

I’ll pay whatever goddamn fee they want from me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the American Beleg is dicking down with is Turin.


	11. Melkor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More coffee shop encounters. Things are heating up for Melkor, as his past returns to trouble him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No accents on names this time. Why? I'm lazy and I wrote this in googledocs, so none of my keyboard shortcuts worked :/

If Maedon shows up, it's a good omen. Mostly it’s a good omen because usually Mairon follows, but still, a good omen nonetheless. If Maedon shows up and only orders one espresso, it’s an even better omen- not for me, because that doesn’t cost as much, but good in general, because he’s not tired, and it’s probably good to be not tired when you have a job like his. If Maedon only pops in to say hi, it’s the best omen. At least, that’s what logic would suggest.

But he hasn’t popped in to say hi, and he’s got his usual order, but this time he isn’t darting away in a hurry. Which really confuses the whole system of omens, not that I put much thought into it beforhand. No- instead of any of that, he’s sitting at the lone table (the only one that we managed to cram in here), and staring down at his phone. He’s up at eight AM on a Sunday which, by all logic, means something has either gone terribly wrong, or extremely well. By the grin on his face, I’m glad to say I suspect it’s the latter. 

“What’s put  _ you  _ in such a good mood?”

“Hm?” He looks up from his phone- “oh! Right, yes, uh, nothing much, really- uh, my grandmother is getting out of hospital,” he beams, but there are still bags under his eyes. 

He looks so pleased, and I’m reminded about how painfully little I know about my family. Of course, there’s my brother- the prick-- hiding away on the other, richer side of the city with his beautiful family; and my father, too, but I don’t remember much about him, other than the look on his face on the one day he bothered to attend my court hearings; and beyond them? I don’t know anything. 

It’s incredibly strange having an absentee father who was never officially absent.

What’s it like to know your grandparents? To care about them? I could ask Maedon either of these questions, but I don’t think bogging him down with my own existential crises would do much for my ‘trying to be a good person’ record. So instead I say: “I’m glad she’s well.”

“You know,” he looks at me, as if something has just occured to him, “things really started looking up in the week after we talked.”

“Really?” I try to avoid eye-contact- I hope he’s not one of those spiritual types that thinks I’m some sort of angel come to bring him salvation, because I’m not. I don’t even look like an angel. Usually angels are blonde and pretty (wait, aren’t I describing someone I know?)

“I befriended my estranged step-cousin, my grandmother got out of hospital- well, really that’s only two things,” he laughs, “but they’re still significant.”

“Please don’t tell me you think I’m some sort of good luck charm."

He snorts, “what kind of person do you think I am? This is a fun coincidence, my friend, nothing more.” He smiles, and the way his eyes narrow as he does reminds me of a fox. Is he flirting? Probably not- no, this is different. This is the kind of playful Manwe got when he first started seeing Varda. This is something I’ve seen before; those first few months of accidental banter, almost definitely the result of some changed attitude, which would be a byproduct of those first few weeks of flirtation with someone new.

“Have you found someone?” I lean forward, may as well tease him about it, if I’m right.

“What makes you think that?” He takes a sip of his coffee.

“You’re acting different.”

He fake shivers- “I had no idea you knew me so well, Melkor.”

I put my hands up, “fine, you’re just in a good mood.”

“Fingon is rubbing off on me, though,” he adds, only just loud enough for me to hear.

“Fingon?”

“Weird estranged step-cousin-” he shakes his head, “his personality is  _ contagious _ .”

“Evidently.” 

His eyes widen as he looks back at his phone- “fuck, is that the time?”

“Late for a date?”

“Absolutely not,” he says, but I catch his smirk for the split-second that it’s on his face.

“Uh huh?”

“No! I’m going to meet my parents, asshole-” he gets up to leave, “thanks for the coffee, by the way.”

“It’s literally my job.”

“Let me be polite, will you?”

“Sure thing,” I salute him as he leaves.

It’s quite for a but after that, but then, as if planned for the perfect unsuspicious timing, the door swings open. I don’t even have to look up to know who it is with that strange gait, and the tap, tap, tap of polymer plastic making direct contact with the linoleum checkers of the floor.

“Edmund,” I cough. I still don’t look up.

“Good!” His voice is way too sweet- too accurate, but there’s a gravel to it, too- probably from screaming his vocal chords raw with those stupid fucking victory cires, “you remembered.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not particularly looking to get murdered today.”

“Of course, of course,” he chuckles, “you’re  _ clean _ now.”

“And I’d like to stay that way-”

“Don’t worry-” he pats me on the shoulder a little too hard, “I’m only here to see how you’re getting on. As friends, you know?”

“Friends?” I would do that intellectual ‘one-eyebrow-raised’ look but I never could figure out how people did that. 

“Yeah, anyway, how are you getting on?”

“Fine, I’ve-” I pause for a moment to consider what things I should tell him. Go with the good? Talk about how I’m dating some hot pseudo-supermodel, how I might finally have a non-criminal friend; or should I tell him the bad? My brother pays for my entire existance and that  _ he’s  _ here of all people. I compromise: “Well, I’m here, and you’re also here.”

“Yes, I can see that,” he waves a hand, then leans in close, “look, I know you’re trying to make yourself something here, but you have a past- you have a  _ history  _ that isn’t going to leave you peacefully. Now, I’m not here to tell you that we want you back, or that I’m going to drag you into danger again, but there are other people who will- who won’t let you forget your past, okay?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m not telling you anything- I’m  _ warning  _ you,” his voice drops even lower, “you’re probably one of the most powerful people they had, Melkor, they aren’t going to let you get away with all their secrets that easily, especially considering who your family is.” He pauses. I not the use of  _ they  _ instead of  _ we _ . He holds my gaze, and I notice a tiny scar at the corner of his left eye that I could swear wasn’t there before, “and you know- you know that they want you even more now- now that you’ve got a Feanorion hanging about.”

“Why?”   


“No doubt you’ll find out if you aren’t careful-” he waves as he turns to leave. “I’ve got to be making a move now.”

“Hey tell me why!” But he slips out of the door without another word. Didn’t even buy anything. “Son of a bitch.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout out to my amazing girlfriend, HerAwesomeShinyness and my writing partner ravenditefairylights for helping me name Edmund
> 
> Updates may become more spread out as I have three weeks until the most important mock exams of my life (yikes)


	12. Maedon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a date. (Yet).

Everything happens at once, of course- apparently with our family it always has- things come in waves. I was born around the same my parents were sitting their exams (both graduated with straight As, somehow- they’ve always been powerhouses), Maglor was born during their second round of exams, my father made it big at the same time Miriel was hospitalised, and now here I am, befriending the step-family my father hates while Maglor is finally meeting his match and Miriel is getting out.

‘Waves of fate’, mum calls it, and dad snorts, because he doesn’t believe in fate. I’m not sure where I stand on the topic…yet. It’s the same way I feel about soulmates and aliens.

And _this_ thing that I’m doing- letting myself get dragged into coming back home for a week to ‘bond as a family’, and then spending the first day trying to persuade Maglor to play along (he wouldn’t have it- somehow he manages to be both a slacker _and_ a workaholic), the second awkwardly dodging around the house so that I wouldn’t have to have to tell anyone about the last twenty years of my life in any level of detail, and now spending the third on people who are ‘not your real family, son’.

Do I feel a little bad ditching my family to hang out with Fingon? Yes. Does that change the fact that I feel severely uncomfortable hanging around in my own home because I was barely close to my grandmother before everything went to hell and now I’m expected to spend every waking minute with her? No. Also, I think I need to tell someone who is ‘not my real family’ about all of that.

But Miriel catches me at the door.

“Maedon?”

“Yes?”

“You’re all dressed up- “she smiles; she dresses like a roadside fortune teller half the time, and like the queen-mother the other half- today she’s the former. She seems happier on those days- more at peace. “Going on a date?”

“It’s not a date- and this is the second time I’ve been asked that since Monday.”

She lets out a short laugh, “maybe that’s because everyone can see it except you.”

“I can see it- I know how it looks,” I sigh, “but it’s really not like that- first of all, I’m meeting my _step-cousin,_ and second, we’re _friends_ \- “

“Step-cousin? Which one?” She seems more alert all of a sudden, “Fingon or Turgon?”

“Uh, Fingon,” I try to hide my surprise that she knows any of their names, though I suppose she must’ve heard about them, at least. It’s not like my grandfather never visited- come to think of it, I think Indis must’ve visited, too- sometimes I’d meet her eyes while we stood in the hospital lobby as I waited to pick up Maglor and Caranthir.

“He was such a happy baby when I last saw him- still teething, bless- he didn’t like _that_ at all- “

“Wait- you _knew_ him?”

“Of course, I knew him,” she makes a gesture of mock offence- “he’s my- my best friend’s grandson- you think I wouldn’t even _try_ to say hello? I was his babysitter.”

“Oh.” I never really considered that there was a time after Miriel first got discharged, and before she was admitted the second time, when things were good between all of our families. I mean, of course I knew it in _theory_ , but the reality was strange. Like waking up from a dream about someone who you don’t see as often as you should, only to find that they exist in real life, too.

She laughs at me again, and shakes her head, “anyway, go enjoy yourself- wait- one more thing,” she starts, “do you know if Maglor’s little competition piece is going to be public? I’d like to, you know, _see_ him.”

“I don’t know- I’ll ask.”

“Thank you, dear; I don’t have a phone yet, you see.” She pats me on the shoulder- she has to reach up, but she does it, and she smiles proudly as she does.

“I’ll see you in a bit,” I say, opening the door.

 “Make sure to be back before midnight- your father would probably kill you if you slept over,” she grins.

I shake my head as I duck out of the door.

Fingon is already at the end of the street- he raises his eyebrows at me- “I got held up.”

“Of course, you did,” he pulls me into one of those ‘bro hugs’- apparently, it’s a habit he picked up from being surrounded by super athletic bros at the pool all the time. “So, what exactly are we meant to be doing on this fine afternoon,” he says, gesturing vaguely to the overcast skies.

“Seems like visiting Maglor, then maybe I can take you to that one coffee shop where the coffee is probably strong enough to kill you if you drink it on an empty stomach- don’t look at me like that- there’s literally a notice up in the window.”

“Not commenting,” he makes a show of zipping his mouth shut, then turns right around and comments: “hey, is that a date?”

“I mean- I didn’t _mean_ for it to be a date.”

“Shame.” He nudges me in the ribs. I’m not 100% sure that he’s joking, “either way, I’m kind of curious about Maglor; he sounds mysterious- I don’t remember him from when we were all little.”

“Maybe you were just too young to remember?”

“Well, I did vaguely remember _you_.”

“Weird- wait- _oh,”_ I shake my head, “no, you wouldn’t remember him.” I shake my head.

“Oh? Why not?”

“Timing’s off,” I say. I’m not sure Maglor would appreciate me outing him to someone he hasn’t even properly met yet. And also seems like he never will- because there’s a strip of paper taped over the buzzer for his apartment that just reads ‘fuck off Maedon’. “Lovely.”

Fingon snorts.

“I’m going to call him- no, I’m going to buzz him anyway; he won’t know it’s me- “

“Until you open your moth- great plan- he’ll cut you off the moment you say anything,” Fingon folds his arms; he looks amused. I don’t suppose he has the same variety of types of younger siblings as I do.

“Why don’t you speak, if you find it so entertaining?”

“Maybe I will- “he goes to press his finger against the buzzer- “wait; what exactly am I supposed to be asking?”

“If his competition is going to be public.”

“Hey Maglor, I know you don’t know me but is your competition a public event? Your brother wants to know.” He winks at me.

“Yes, it’s at the concert hall at eight and who the fuck are you?” His voice comes over on the static- it doesn’t sound as raw as usual, which generally means he’s been taking better care of it.

“My name’s Fingon- I’m your step-cousin.”

“Oh, _Fingon._ Alright, tell Maedon to go fuck himself for me. Goodbye.”

Fingon turns to me.

“Are you really going- “

“He says to go fuck yourself,” he gives me a shit-eating grin. “And isn’t it time for our date?”

“Not a date.”

“Of course not.”

But when we get there, the place is shut- shutters down and a single notice on the door that reads ‘back in ten’ in smudged writing from the brief shower three hours ago. I knock against the shutters anyway, just in case, but there’s no response. Fingon raises his eyebrows at me.

“I’m not going to open today- “I jump at the sound of Melkor’s voice behind us. “Sorry. Wait- are you Fingon?”

Fingon nudges me in the side, “how many people have you been gossiping about me to?”

Melkor winks at me. I sigh. He smirks.

“I trust you aren’t in any serious danger, then?”

“It’s Sunday, and I’m tired- also I had a date.”   

“Oh?”

“I’ll tell you both all about it- shit,” his eyes widen, “I have to get going- it’ll have to wait.” He leaves in hurry- right down the other end of the street.

“Well- that was weird,” Fingon meets my eyes, “suppose we’ll have to think of something else to do; I could take you back to my house- “

“Wait- not like- “

“No, dude, I feel like you’d like speaking to my dad,” he says, but he trails off, and I can tell from the look on his face that he’s thinking about our respective families.

“I feel like I would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next update wont be for a while (got mock exams) but we're roughly 1/3 of the way through. Hope you're enjoying so far!


	13. Maglor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of the competition arrives and Maglor faces som inconvenient revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ravenditefairylights for beta reading!

Miriel insisted on coming, which means that by extension half of my family is here- shaken up and full of issues, all dressed to the nines so as to make me look as prestigious as possible- like I'm one of a box full of pearls. Not diamonds- I've always thought diamonds looked gaudy. My father and I disagreed on that, and my mother disagreed that it was a topic worth fighting over. 

Grandma looks the picture of upper class elegance; her light hair is swept back into one of the fanciest up-dos I've ever laid eyes on, and adorned with a single topaz hairpin, embedded in a delicate metal floral design with white enamel adornments. Her blazer is as dark as the night sky- the same colour as her pencil-skirt-- and has delicately subtle floral embroidery, only a shade darker than the fabric. It doesn't even look like it should be a real fabric, but it suits her, and brings out the flecks of blue in her dark eyes. I've never seen this get-up before.

I tug at my collar, feeling underdressed in a simple white shirt, and tailored red suit-jacket (the one my father got me for my eighteenth). No others would fit me- the guy taking my measurements said I had very feminine hips. There's a sense of victory in knowing that it doesn't fit as well as it used to. 

Then I see my own mother, in jeans and one of her 'nice’ (not covered in clay dust) shirts, and I feel significantly less underdressed. She waves at me- knows better than to embarrass me before the show-- and takes her seat. Dad isn't with her, but that's okay: he's a busy man, after all. It's okay. 

They sit down with the rest of the audience; it's mostly made up of other music-hall employees, or other members of the orc, but there are a couple of people who must've seen the flyer outside that promised a free concert and wandered on in to see what that was about. I smile and nod at them; it's always good to be welcoming, according to my boss. 

Then, of course, there's Daeron. 

Black shirt, top three buttons undone to show off a long silver chain looped around his neck (probably a crucifix), olive green tuxedo, hair slicked back, but not enough that one of the strands doesn't fall forward and brush against his cheekbone, drawing attention to the light freckles that spatter it. 

He smiles, too, with perfect straight teeth. He was born with them that straight, too, probably. Asshole. 

I decide to go first- mostly because I'm confident enough that he won't be able to upstage me. He agrees. 

The strings of the harp feel pleasantly painful against my raw fingertips as I run my fingers along them, plucking every single note before I begin- they each sound off in a perfect chime of sound reverberating around the hall. I check my voice when I introduce myself: “Maglor Choifeu, and I'll be performing an original composition,” then I turn to the harp, and play the first note.

I've always thought music was easy to get lost on- time just seems to vanish into the song- weave into the melody and whirl away into oblivion along with any other thoughts that had been on my mind up until then. My first instrument was the violin, and I played it almost every hour of every day for weeks on end until I was better than most adults.

Then it was easy, and boring, and dad had just got a pay raise, so he could afford to buy me a flute, and then a guitar, and a piano, and before I knew it, I'd lost all my childhood to song, and I couldn't even complain. 

It's the same now- I'm relaxed, almost lazy, as I let the lyrics I've been through so many times I could sing them in my sleep float through the air- the only vocal coach I ever had once told me that I could really develop my own style if I tried. Well, this is my style- smooth and dulcet, making it sound like I'm putting in so much more effort than I am. 

And the harp is second nature.

Then it's over, and I'm being applauded, and I scan the crowd to find his face- are those nerves that I can see? I try not to grin too smugly. He grins back.

Fuck.

He's really handsome.

I shake the thought off. Handsome doesn't mean  _ nice _ , or  _ worth my time _ . 

I take my bow. 

When I take my seat next to Miriel, she squeezes my shoulder- “that sounded  _ amazing,  _ kiddo.” 

Then Daeron takes his place, undoes the fourth button of his shirt so that his collarbones are distractingly visible, then clears his throat and introduces himself as “Daeron Dubois,” who was also performing an original composition. He runs a single long finger up the string of the harp, and I note how short he keeps his nails. Apparently that’s a thing that I’m paying attention to, now. Huh. 

Then he starts playing- plucking the strings of the harp almost as if it’s a guitar instead, singing with no words, creating something new of each of the instruments-  _ rebirthing them _ .

Fuck me, that’s clever.

I almost curse aloud, too, but my grandmother is next to me, so instead I bite my lips and watch his hands as they move across the strings; it’s enchanting- like some sort of strange dance of fingertips and thumbs, leaping and gliding and equal parts delicate and dexterous. I graduate to biting my thumb- this isn’t good- no, this is the opposite of good- this is actually incredibly bad, because I completely neglected to experiment with the technical aspect, and it was so  _ obvious  _ the entire time.  Watching him is like watching a storm; something that’s as beautiful as it is terrifying, and it  _ electrifies  _ me, and it hits me because, god damn this is my match- this is the one person who has ever been able to match me.

Miriel squeezes my arm, “you okay?” under her breath.

“Mm? Yeah, I’m fine,” I murmur, but I can’t take my eyes off him until the song is over. I haven’t been this struck by a performance since I was a little kid watching the BBC Proms with eyes glued to the screen, trying to mimic the way their hands moved along the instruments in the air in front of me. 

Then it’s over, and I can breathe out again. Then I remember that this is a  _ competition _ and go right back to holding my breath. I hadn’t been paying attention to the crowd while I was playing- I have no idea what they thought of mine, but I can tell how much they loved Daeron’s, so now my nerves are playing out again, and I catch his eye, and he smiles at me- genuinely, too-- and I think,  _ I’m really going to hate losing to him _ .

Then Lauren stands up, and smiles, and I know she knows who’s won, and I can’t tell who she’s smiling at most brightly; I couldn’t guess if she would smile brighter at the loser anyway.

“Now, both performances here were brilliant, and I’m sure I speak for the rest of the audience here when I say that we were all absolutely spellbound, but of course, there has to be a winner,” she pauses and grins around the room, “or does there? Maglor, your technical skill outshines anything I’ve ever heard, and the meaning and heart that you put into your work is moving beyond words. Daeron, your strength is in your creativity, and your intimate knowledge of your craft is also...beyond words. Look! I’m repeating myself!” A couple of people laugh. “Anyway, the point I’m getting to is, as you’ve probably guessed: it’s a draw.”

I nod, and she winks at me. Maybe this was the only outcome I’d ever be able to reconcile with that acknowledgement that Daeron  _ is  _ as good as I am. 

“But that’s not all-” her tone changes, this is serious now, “you two clearly have something to settle, and if we’re going to have you both here, it needs to be  _ settled _ . So, I’m assigning you a project to work on  _ together- _ ” motherfucker- “so that you can learn to trust each other. You can fill in each other’s shortcomings, and with such great talent coming together, I’m sure it’ll be wonderful,” she beams again, “do us proud!” 

 

-

 

“I’m glad you came home,” Miriel smiles into her wine glass; the sunset has long faded, and it’s starting to really get cold, but I don’t feel like going inside just yet.

“Yeah, well, I was done with that particular commitment,” I say, “and now into another one, I suppose, but how are you?”

She takes a sip from the glass- her eyes really are like pools of deep ocean water in the darkness of the night- a darkness that she carries with her, according to my father. She takes a deep breath, “I’m tired.”

“Tired?”

“My life feels so long- the days are endless, and I’m tired- it’s tiring.” She laughs gently, then shakes her head, “I can’t do another twenty years of this.”

“You aren’t happy?”

“No, it’s not that- I’m perfectly happy. I’m emotionally perfect,” she pauses, “I’m just  _ exhausted. _ ”

I’m not sure what to say, and I keep thinking about all those days she seemed to spend in that hospital sitting around and doing nothing, letting the hours drag by, and I wonder if it was that that caused her to dread the passage of time. 

Then there’s the part of me that, as I meet her eyes in the light of the stars, can’t shake the dread that this is  _ bad. _ This is so extremely  _ bad _ .

  
  



	14. Mairon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mairon meets a mysterious figure from Melkor's past, and possibly from his, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second attempt uploading this :') let's hope it works

There’s something strange about the evening; I’ve never believed in all of Yavanna’s ‘cosmic energy’ bullshit, but if I did, I’d be shaking right now. There’s the distinct sensation of standing sentinel with the trees at the top of a cliff, watching the waves beat against the rock below, and feeling the earth shift and heave. A landslide is coming. Some form of release, on a cosmic scale- is what I’d say if I were Yavanna. But I am not her, and I don’t believe in the same things that she does. I believe in real, tangible things.

 

Like anxiety, for instance. 

 

Blood red sunsets don’t help. 

 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” We’ve stopped in the middle of the street, just to stare back at it- there’s some gleam in Melkor’s eyes that makes my pulse quicken.

 

Back when I was a teenager who stayed up past midnight watching true crime on my phone, I noticed a pattern in how they described the criminals- every single time, the victim would claim they saw some sadistic glimmer in their eyes. It made sense, criminals are easier to loathe when you believe that they did what they did out of joy.

 

But I never bought it.  

 

I recognise that look; it’s fear. Very few people commit terrible acts because they want to, but we are led to believe the number is so much higher. We are led to believe that fear and desperation is joy and passion-

 

“Mairon?”

 

“It’s strange,” I answer at last, then I catch what’s bothering him in the corner of my eye. A woman- roughly middle-aged, dressed in black from top to bottom, with sunglasses that, by all accounts, should be much too large for her face, but that somehow work perfectly with her ensemble- she stands at the other end of the street, leaning against the wall of the rose gardens, but I can feel her eyes watching us. 

 

“Strange?”

 

“The sunset- it’s not usually that violent.” I slip my hand into his. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

 

“Where do you want to go?”

 

“No preference,” I don’t mention that that’s only because I only want to leave for his sake- he doesn’t like to think other people are protecting him. The best way is to make him think he’s protecting me. Manipulative? I’m not sure- I wonder if the ends can ever really be separated from the means- I’m pretty sure I can justify  _ this _ . It’s better than playing men at bars for free drinks, at least. 

 

“My place?”

 

“Sure,” I say, because maybe I am a little in the mood for giving Aule and Yavanna a panic attack- it’d be ample revenge, I think. 

 

“I’ll go grab my car-”

 

“You have a car?”

 

“Please don’t act so surprised,” he says, and I raise my hands in surrender. Then he leaves me standing to wait at the side of the road, watching that sunset- what  _ would  _ Yavanna make of it? She’s so anti-violence of all kind, but I can’t help but feel that even she would say that the sky looked like a battleground. Maybe the sky looks like that on nights when someone is killed. I wonder who. 

 

“Excuse me,” the woman in the sunglasses taps me on the shoulder- her accent is strange; I can’t place it. 

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Can you point me to the nearest hotel?” Surprisingly underwhelming.

 

“If you walk up the street, take a left, then take another left, you should be able to see it- it’s not very fancy, though.”

 

“Fanciness is not a factor,” she draws her lips into something strange; half smile- half leer, “after all, it is only temporary.”

 

“Right.” Then I think about how she obviously put Melkor on edge, and how he still hasn’t let a single thing slip about the circumstances of his criminality, and I can’t stop myself, “what’s your name?”

 

She licks her lips, I think- I’m finding it difficult to focus on any one thing, and lowers the sunglasses to reveal one milky white glass eye, and one perfectly real ink black one. “Ungoliant, and you tell that young man you’re with that I say hello.”

 

“Will do,” I swallow the gag in my throat.

 

“Enjoy your evening, now,” she slips the sunglasses back on as she turns to walk away, and I watch her go. She doesn’t seem the least bit afraid of the red sky. 

_ Ungoliant.  _

 

Now I have a name to throw around if I want to ask questions, maybe I can turn around and ask exactly who she is- frame it like it’s jealousy, or something- as if I haven’t already guessed his exact feelings towards her. Then again, maybe it is jealousy- if all this crime was the reason he didn’t have time for me before, and she’s a part of that. 

 

I wonder if I’ll ever stop thinking about this like it’s some sort of game to play the most convincing scorned man possible. 

 

But the more I think about it, the more I recognise that name.  _ Ungoliant. _

 

_ Ungoliant _ , with one glass eye, and thin lips and sharp nails- I’ve seen that  _ face _ before. I know this woman. I know her, and not being able to place her might actually drive me insane. 

 

Melkor pulls up- old car, beat up but still running. It’s probably from before he was arrested, judging by the state of it. “Hey-”

 

“Who’s Ungoliant?” I blurt out, but it’s not at all calculated, because the not knowing is killing me, “who  _ is  _ she?” I gesture to the street corner, though I know that she’s long gone.  

 

“Get in,” his tone is completely different, but I’m not afraid. I get in. 

 

-

 

We wind up pulling over at the side of the road after driving three miles in the wrong direction, and he grips my hand tightly. He doesn’t let go. Of course, we’re still in London- you can drive 25 miles in pretty much any direction and still be in London. Of course, American cities are  _ technically  _ bigger, but only by a couple of square miles. No one realises how  _ big  _ London is, crossing the bounds of seventy-three different constituencies, home to a park three times the size of New York’s Central park where deer roam as freely as if they were in the countryside.

 

Maybe high school geography was good for  _ something. _

 

The drive was silent for the most part, apart from the occasional question on my part, and shake of the head on his:  _ hold on. _ But now he turns to face me.

 

“So you know how crime is dangerous and you shouldn’t do it? She’s the reason why.”

 

“Okay,” I say, “care to elaborate?”

 

He bites his lip, “she’s kind of like a-” He keeps looking over his shoulder as he speaks. I squeeze his hand. “She’s- I’m not sure how to put it- she’s my boss? My ex-boss? She’s the one pulling all the strings.”

 

“And you haven’t reported her?” I breathe.

 

“It wouldn’t help in any way- she’d have me killed, and she’d still escape because she’s done it a million times before.” He looks back over his shoulder again.

 

“Hey,” I take him by the cheek, gently guiding him to look at  _ me _ , “you haven’t betrayed her yet- why would she hurt you? Also, witness protection exists,” I say it as a joke, but he looks serious. 

 

“I couldn’t leave you- not now that I’ve just started to know you.”

 

“That sounds suspiciously like love,” I raise my eyebrows, but I feel like I downed a whole two-litre bottle of coke in one. Then I wonder why I’m trying to lighten  _ that  _ part of the mood up, when it’s what I’ve wanted so painfully for so long.

 

“Maybe it is.”

 

“Oh shit,” wait, that’s not the right response-

 

“If you aren’t-”

 

“You know there’s no correct response to that, right?” I say, because I don’t have the energy to deal with anything other than straightforward. “How the hell am I supposed to say ‘maybe I’m in love with you, too’?” I hesitate, and I can see a stupid, shit-eating grin spread across his face- “Wait.”

 

Then the look drops from his face, and his eyes are fixed on something over my shoulder, and I know he’s seen danger- “we need to leave- get out of the car.”

 

“ _ Out  _ of the car? Not to be a prick, but wouldn’t driving be better?” I don’t need to ask why. 

 

“In  _ this  _ city? Traffic for miles as far as the eye can see?”

 

“I’m sorry, are you asking me to  _ run _ ?” 

 

We run.

 

And maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the thrill- or maybe the adrenaline is the thrill-- but I’m not afraid of not getting home on time. I’m not afraid of what anyone thinks- hell, there are a thousand fucking things to be more afraid of than Yavanna being disappointed in me. So, when we finally get a chance to slow down, and he suggests that we split up, I refuse. And he nods. 

 

The moment we’re through the door, he turns and he says “kiss me.”

 

And I do. And I don’t stop.

  
  
  
  



	15. Maedon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miriel is missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. If implied/mentioned suicide/character death upsets you, you might want to sit this one out.
> 
> 2\. I'm getting myself through these updates by reassuring myself that I'm going to go back and work out the wrinkles once the fic is finished. 
> 
> 3\. Officially at the halfway point. I apologise if the pacing seems off- I got bored of waffling around with the lead-up so now all the Events are happening one after the other.

It's nearly midnight. It's nearly midnight, and I'm out wandering the streets, thick winter coat (because autumn nights get cold) and Maglor at my side. He's carrying a torch that my, less eloquent, mind would describe as 'industrial’- it's huge, bright, and weighs roughly the same as a newborn baby. And I have plenty of experience with newborn babies, having six younger brothers. 

The last time I saw Maglor this afraid was when he was about to go into the operating theatre after hours of alternating agony and painkiller-induced-haze. He gripped my wrist with a strength I could never had predicted from someone who had been vomiting from pain just an hour ago, and said “ _ If I die, tell our parents I'm sorry.”  _ Then I spent the next couple of hours counting furiously back and forth from one-hundred to stave off the panic attack, to try and comprehend that he could beat himself up over going into A&E at an inconvenient time.

He's always been intense. 

Now more so than ever. I think he takes more after our father than he likes- more than he's comfortable with. 

I don't blame him.

Miriel disappeared in the late afternoon. She didn't show up to dinner- didn't warn anyone about where she'd be. We waited an hour before we realised something was very wrong, and then we freaked out, as is reasonable. Dad left without making any sort of plan, Mum organised the rest of us, but she sent Mags and I out first, because it wasn't hard to tell how much the inactivity bothered him. 

Since then, all we've done was dip into a twenty-four-hour convenience store and buy canned coffee when our eyes started to sting. The adrenaline is probably enough to keep us up, but coffee helps. Coffee helps, though I might call in sick tomorrow so that I can finally shut my eyes.

But that's on the assumption that this all turns out alright. Could it not? It could.  _ Fuck _ . It could turn out  _ very  _ badly, and I wouldn't know how to react. Shit.  _ Shit _ . 

I bite back the panic. We haven't found her- until we find her, she was exists in a limbo of dead and alive. Safe and in danger. 

Maglor takes in a sharp breath, and I turn to see he's lowered the torch, his face lit up in the blue glow of his phone screen. He lets the torch slip from his fingers, making a dull thud against the moss-carpeted alleyway pavement. All I can hear is his breathing- deep, like he's forcing back a panic attack. No, not  _ like _ ; he  _ is  _ forcing back a panic attack, and I'm just standing here watching him, as if I didn't learn to read him back when we were still dumb teenagers whose births were timed perfectly to both be taking our exams at the same time.

Physical contact- right, right; that was the solution. I pull him into a hug, and he's shaking ever-so-slightly, and I know what he's going to say long before he breathes it into my ear, as if saying it aloud is what makes it final: “she's gone.” 

-

“Maedon?” It's Anaire who answers the door- she yawns, but she's dressed, and her hair looks great- I ask if I woke her up just to be polite- “oh no, I was just on the phone with Fingolfin. Different time zone.”

“Is Fingon awake?”

“It's one in the morning,” she laughs lazily, “of course he's awake- Finno! Someone at the door for you!”

“Coming!” I can hear the sound of movement upstairs. 

Anaire yawns again, “do come in- quite the chill tonight. I'll put the kettle on.”

“Thank you,” I say, then I turn to look at Fingon, who doesn't even look tired. It occurs to me that his shift starts in the mid-afternoon, and suddenly that makes a whole lot of sense. He lights up when he sees me, then darkens again as he wonders why I'm here in this state.

“Why are you…”

“I just wanted to speak to you,” I say, knowing full well how overdramatic that sounds out of context- context which he doesn't have. “My family are- I didn't want to upset them more than they already are.”

“So you came to  _ me _ , son of the man your father hates.” He sits down in the chair next to me. “What's wrong?”

“My grandmother- Miriel just died, well- not just, and the word 'died’ implies that it was a lot more passive-”

“Miriel’s dead?” He asks, tone lowered; I'm painfully aware of the clink of mugs in the kitchen as Anaire fumbles with the tea bags.

“Is chamomile alright? I can't find the redbush, and I'm not giving either of you anything with caffeine in at this hour…” she trails off as she sees our faces, “Chamomile it is, then.”

Fingon gently knocks his fists against the table a couple of times, then bites his thumb- he doesn't know what to do with his hands- I've seen the same thing in both Mags and my father. Part of me wishes he'd hold mine- just to stop them from shaking so much. It's not the cold; if it was the cold, they would've stopped by now. Then he squeezes my shoulder, and it occurs to me that it's been  _ years  _ since someone who wasn't my family touched me. 

Years until he came along.

“Are you okay?” He says, and his voice is so much softer than usual, as if he thinks his normal speech might hurt me. 

“I just,” I sigh, and then I look at him- blue eyes that are focussed entirely on  _ me _ . He doesn't even look away when Anaire sets down his mug in front of him, squeezing his shoulder. It occurs to me that I can tell him- I can tell him everything. “I just never knew her well. She was always hidden away in a hospital, and I was always at home studying; our paths rarely crossed. And then she came home. And I didn't know how to feel. And maybe I wished that she wasn't back home, because it felt weird to have her there and not know how to feel about her and-”

“Hey,” his voice is so, so soft- so tender, “ _ hey.” _

I reach up to wipe my eyes and he catches my hand, and pulls me into some awkward hug around the corner of the table that doesn't feel so awkward at all because it's  _ him. _

“I don't know why I came here,” I murmur into his shoulder- he's so warm. How can a person be this pleasant to touch? “I don't know why- I just needed to speak to  _ you _ .”

He grips me a little tighter, “I feel that way, too, sometimes.” 

It's a throwaway- something he's saying more to himself, than anyone else, but it makes me never want to let go. But I have to let go, because we have chamomile tea, and it'd be rude to waste it. Besides, I'll need to go home eventually- home to a cold, empty apartment, left static since I went back to stay in the family house. I think he can tell how little I want to go home, because the next thing he says is “we have a sofa bed, if you want to stay over; it's getting late.”

“I'd like that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed! They're what keep me going at the end of the day! (I especially like it if you ask questions/give me specifics- it's really helpful!)


	16. Maglor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor grieves (with a little help).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to glorthelions, r-a-dical and jane-ways on tumblr for betaing!

What happens next? 

Really, it should be that I rethink my life- quit my job and go on some hike halfway across the country to ‘find myself’. I’d sleep in a tent and only eat herbs and berries that I picked from trees myself. My ceiling would be the night sky, with all its stars twinkling brightly above me- watching me with kindness. Or with judgement. 

What actually happens next?

I show up to work, and I don’t say a single word to anyone- don’t make a sound until I’m completely certain I’m alone. They didn’t ask me to come in; they don’t want me here, but I don’t want to stay in the same house as my parents, my brothers- seemingly  _ everyone _ \- and I  _ really  _ don’t want to go home and lock myself up, away from anyone I know, let alone anyone I could actually say a kind word about. So I come in to work and I hide away in a back room.

I don’t want them around me, I just want to know that they’re there, somewhere in the building.

I don’t think anyone knows what’s happened- mum was smart enough to speak to the police about speaking to the press about keeping their damn mouths shut and not sensationalising the ‘incident’ (which is what we’re calling it now, apparently- gives it a tad less permanence, which I suppose is what we all want). I’m smart enough to know when not to tell people things- can’t say the same for my brothers, but I’m not sure who they’d tell. They aren’t really the social types. Maybe Celegorm would tell Aredhel (he thinks I don’t notice when he slips up on the name of his mystery friend) but what difference would it make? He is, technically, family, and therefore has to be included in ‘family matters.’ 

I left before the shouting got too intense.

Dad seemed to have had the same realisation as me- that being hospitalised hurt Miriel more than helped her, or something along those lines. He also yelled a bunch about ‘protecting your filthy brats’, but I think that was more insult that backstory. And also ironic, since I think Maedon and I are the only clean ones in our family- and I only shower twice a week. The bar is low. 

I just- I just wish I could talk to her.

There’s a knock on the door- I smile at the timing, but it’s cold and bitter. That’s the thing: I haven’t cried, but everything I  _ do  _ do seems tainted. “Yes?”

The door swings open, and it’s Daeron, because who else would it be? Everyone else knows not to disturb me when I’m like this. “What are you doing here?”

“Not even gonna say ‘good morning’?”

“Good morning- what are you doing here?” He doesn’t look like he’s trying to be rude, though. Maybe it’s a language difference. Maybe I’m too busy being fucked up about other things to get mad at him.

“Moping.” No use in lying.

“But you aren’t even playing anything- what’s the point?” Nevermind, I’m not too busy to be mad.

“Can you leave me alone?”

He opens his mouth for a second like he’s trying to find some flaw in what I’m doing, or some reason he needs to be there bothering me. He closes it again, then looks at me properly for a painfully long time before he drops his tone and says, “We got off on the wrong foot.”

“Clearly.”

“We’re supposed to work together now, so let’s try and get along?”

“Yep.”

“What are you moping about?”

“Mhm.” I can’t help but crack a grin- it’s not funny. It’s not funny, and I’m only laughing at myself, but it feels good nonetheless. Organic. Shit, my emotions really are fried beyond repair, huh? It’s alright though, because I can see the corners of his mouth twitch.

“Is being a dick part of your Britishness?”

“I don’t know, is being an annoying prat part of your Frenchness?”

He snorts, but he comes in; closes the door behind him gently, as if he doesn’t want to make any loud noises, like he can tell that I came here to be quiet. Why do I do that? Hide away in silence whenever I’m upset? It only ever makes it worse, because the complete quiet of these rooms is some sort of secret torment designed specifically to hurt me. It’s alright, though, because I know the answer. 

“What are you moping about?” He asks again, this time softer, as if that’s the key to getting a straight answer-

“My grandmother committed suicide,” I say, because I haven’t said that sentence out loud yet, and I want to see how the words fit in my mouth- how they roll off my tongue- if they get stuck in the back of my throat for me to choke on. Or maybe I don’t say them for any of those reasons. I say them because someone asked nicely, and for a second I wondered if it really is true that sharing a burden lessens it. 

It doesn’t. Not by its nature. It still weighs the same as it always has, but now someone is watching me carry it, with a blank stare, and limbs they don’t know quite what to do with- words they’re not sure how to use. 

I don’t know why I tell him. What can he do about it? Nothing.

“Are you sad?” What a strange way to say that- what a strange thing to say. 

“Yes.” My voice breaks, and  _ now  _ I’m crying, and this is the worst possible timing to skip straight to depression. Weren’t there supposed to be at least two stages in-between? I don’t remember. I can’t be bothered to look it up. Not right now. 

“That’s okay,” he says, and he sits down on the floor next to me, and pats me on the shoulder. “Do you want to do something to take your mind off it?”

“No,” I breathe, “I want to process this.”

“Want to do something to keep your mind on it?”

“Like what?” I wipe my eyes- I’m not done crying, but I do it anyway, because it feels like the right thing to do- “And, just so you know, you’re the last person I’d want to see me like this.”

“Maybe that’s why I’m here.”

“Maybe,” I snort, “well, my dignity slipped down the drain about five minutes ago, so what do you suggest?”

“Write about her.”

“Write about her?”

“For our thing.”

“Right, I keep forgetting that- you know, I don’t think I can stand to hear you play again.”

“Am I that bad?” He smirks in that kind of way people smirk when they’re just asking to be punched.

“Yes.”

He laughs. Part of me wishes that the atmosphere would go back to hostile, so I can reasonably tell him to fuck off, and let me sit here in peace. The other part wishes that he’ll never leave. That part is the one that scares me; am I really that dependant on people who are nice to me? Hell, people who are only nice to me when they know it’s been rough- or does that make them nicer? To change their behaviour just so someone can have less of a hard time. 

There’s a third part of me that wishes I wasn’t prone to analysing everything. 

“Not right now,” I say , “I’m going to go home,” I lie, “but I’ll give you my number.”

“Alright,” he says, and I do, and then he puts his arm around me for a hot second, because I guess that’s just part of his culture, before getting up to leave me alone again.

I think he knows I'm lying about going home.

And I was right, you know: now that he's gone, I really wish he hadn't left. 

Well,  _ shit. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Just so you all know, I won't be posting this fic to tumblr until I manage a rewrite, but you'll see it there as well as soon as that's done!


	17. Important announcement

Recently I've been really dissatisfied with this fic (you may have been able to tell from the notes I've been leaving on the chapters) so I'm actually going back and rewriting the entire thing.

Since a few extremely key areas of the plot and characterisation (as well as one of the main ships being dropped) are being changed, I'll be publishing it as an entirely new work, possibly even with a new title.

This fic is definitely not dead, but it is going to stop updating for a rather long period of time as I go through and write out everything in rough at once. 

If you have any questions, please feel free to ask down below! Thank you all so much for your patience and support- you guys are the best! 


	18. Rewrite

The rewrite is up, my fellas: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15885795/chapters/37017399

 


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